


Civilized Behavior

by And_The_Rest



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Multi, Slavery, barbarian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-22 10:10:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 69,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14306451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/And_The_Rest/pseuds/And_The_Rest
Summary: The Great Cybertronian War ended with Vos bringing Iacon to its knees.  Those Grounders they did not slaughter were forced to flee into the wilderness.  For many centuries, the Flyers lived in their luxurious towers while the Grounders wondered the desert.  Until a deadly virus ravaged Vos, leaving the surviving Flyers unable to conceive and on the brink of extinction.   It was decided that the still fertile Grounders would be brought to Vos as carriers.   And if they were not exactly willing, what did it matter?  They were just barbarians.





	1. Desperate Times

**Author's Note:**

> The Flyers are desperate to increase their numbers and this prompts them to actions that they come to regret. It contains imagery that might be a trigger for some people. Particularly rape and the deaths of several very young sparklings, also mentions of thousands of fatalities of all ages from the virus. 
> 
> There are no Autobots, Decepticons or Neutrals in this universe. The only factions are Flyers and Grounders. Also, not sure why the wide spread sterility is becoming a recurring theme. However, that is the only real similarity between this story and TDTWE.  
> Warnings for this chapter: Disturbing imagery of a population ravaged by disease. 
> 
> Please read all the warnings before you start. There are placed where this story is going to be very dark. 
> 
> Warnings: Barbarian! AU, Dub Con, Rape/Non-Con, Sticky Sex, Oral, Loss of Virginity, Slavery, Separating Bondmates, Separating Sparklings from Creators, Death of Sparklings, Major Character Deaths, Forced Pregnancy, Forced Heat, Mpreg, Mechpreg, pods, clutches, egg laying, Primus being a jerk, but for a reason, Heavy angst with a happy-ish ending. Eventually.

Wing Lord Starscream and Lord High Protector Megatron stood on the balcony overlooking the magnificent city.  The massive gray mech placed a large, comforting servo on the sleek Seeker’s shoulder as they gazed out over the exquisite spires of the Crystal Towers of Vos.   

Their kingdom. 

Their tomb.

The splendor of the towers, the pristine beauty glittering in the light of their ancient sun was nothing but an exquisite veneer that hid a dark ugly secret.   The Seekers, shuttles, rotary mechs, every type of flight frame on Cybertron was well on their way to extinction. 

A cyber plague had swept through the Aeries, killing them by the thousands.  Only one in fifty adults survived and not a single sparkling that had not passed into youngling hood was spared.   

And as if losing so many of their number was not bad enough, in a final cruel twist, the virus left those Flyers it did not off-line unable to conceive or carry.

Three stellar cycles had passed since the plague was cured, but the damage had been done.  They could no longer reproduce.  And the only viable alternative had been taken away by Sentinel Prime long ago. 

The Great Cybertronian War ended with the last Prime of Cybertron destroying the All Spark.   

In the waning moments of the war the victorious Flyers swept over the devastated Grounder capital where Sentinel Prime made his final stand.  Desperate to save Iacon, he gambled that Wing Lord Skyquake would not risk losing the All Spark.  

To the sorrow of all Cybertron, the Flyer thought he was bluffing. 

Skyquake laughed as he punched through Sentinel’s chest plate.  As the last Prime’s spark guttered in his servo, the dead-mech switch Sentinel held was released. 

The All Spark exploded.   

The shower of glowing shards could be seen from all parts of Iacon.  It was as beautiful as it was horrifying.

Soon after they discovered that the loss of the All Spark had harmed Cybertron in a way no one could have foreseen.    

Just hours later, almost half the energon wells on the planet failed.  

Once productive wells went completely dry, while others slowed to a trickle.   Metalo-plants began to wither and die.  Vast expanses of Cybertron that were once lush forest and fertile farmland were transformed into barren desert. 

Cybertron was wounded, perhaps dying, and they could not even ask their deity if there was a way to bring it back from the brink.

It was considered poor taste to speak of the Matrix of Leadership in Vos.  The surprisingly vindictive relic rejected every Vosian that attempted to claim it. 

All of those who aspired to take up the mantel of Prime heard a deep voice say the same thing as they lifted the artifact.  ‘You are not my chosen.’  

The words were followed by a sever shock, just to be sure the message was received.

And so, the most holy relic of Primus stayed hidden away, deep in the catacombs beneath the ancient temple.  Out of sight and out of mind.

Meanwhile the helm of the fallen Prime was mounted behind the Wing Lord’s throne.   A grisly trophy and constant reminder of the war and its aftermath.  A visible symbol of a legacy of hate.    

Interestingly, some of the palace servants noted that since the virus was unleashed, Sentinel Prime’s face plate seemed to have taken on a bit of a smirk.

They tried cloning, but no matter what method was used, it failed utterly.  The results of their efforts were twisted, horribly deformed protoforms.  It was a mercy that they were nothing more than lumps of metal without consciousness.

Their scientist say that it should have worked.  They could not explain why they failed. 

The Priests had an answer. 

Primus had turned from them.  Their god refused to place one of his precious sparks into those artificial abominations.   They believed that the plague itself was a punishment from Primus for their arrogance.

Although the scientists scoffed at what they termed religious non-sense, Starscream noted that they could not come up with any better explanation. 

With no way to increase their numbers the Flight Frames of Cybertron would eventually die out. 

Starscream truly feared he would be the last Wing Lord.  The one to rule over Vos as the majestic towers crumbled and her proud people turned to rust. 

That was the only reason he now listened to his old friend, Skyfire. 

Once, long ago, they had been close.  When he was doing his post-graduate studies the pair had been inseparable.   They drifted apart once he ascended to Wing Lord.  This was not surprising.  They simply did not travel in the same circles anymore.

The shuttle’s team had been studying the problem of how to increase their waning population.  But friend or not, what he suggested would once have ended with him being imprisoned, if not executed. 

That Starscream was willing to listen at all, and give serious consideration to his proposal was a testament to just how desperate they were.

Although when Skyfire first came to his Lord, Starscream’s shock and anger caused his voice to edged very close to a screech.  “You want us to breed with Barbarians?  WITH GROUNDERS!”

It had taken time for his Trine mates, Thundercracker and Skywarp to get him to calm down, but eventually he sat back on his throne and ordered the shuttle to explain his proposal in detail. 

Megatron just stood back and watched his mate fume at someone else for a change. 

That was always entertaining.

“We have been studying them in earnest since one of my colleagues encountered a group near the ruins of Polyhex.  He was testing the energon wells in the area when the Grounders arrived.  Fortunately, the tribes have a standing truce at the wells since they all use them to gather metalo-plants and refuel themselves and their mech-animals.  It is considered dishonorable to fight near them.”

“What caught his attention was the presence of sparklings that appeared to be under three stellar cycles old.  Intrigued, he began to covertly observe them.  And soon made an astonishing discovery.   He saw newly unfurled bornlings and a mech that was obviously carrying.  My researcher had already tested the nearby well.  As expected the pathogen was present in the energon.  We know that the Grounders have neither the medical knowledge nor the technological resources to come up with a vaccine.   Yet they do not fall ill.  Their sparklings live, and the adults can still carry.  In fact, several of my team who had studied the Grounder tribes before the virus was unleashed report that their numbers are increasing.”

“How is that possible?” asked Starscream.

“They are immune,” answered the shuttle. 

“Are you sure they have no way to counter the virus?” asked Thundercracker.

“My teammate managed to catch one of the Grounders alone and incapacitated him long enough to take medical scans and samples of his energon.   The tests he ran confirmed that he had a naturally occurring antibody that we lack.   And in what may be the ultimate irony, there was a reason he was there surveying the wells at the that time.  The virus itself has somehow stimulated energon production.  It is happening across Cybertron.  Even wells that have long been dry are beginning to produce.   Our world is returning to life.  This means that the Grounders and the mech-animals they hunt now have abundant liquid energon.  Their sources of fuel have more than quadrupled in the last three stellar cycles, so they are producing more sparklings.”

“Too bad we did not know about the Grounders when the virus was first released,” rumbled Megatron.  “We could have used their energon to create a cure much earlier.  Even kept us from losing the ability to conceive.”  They would likely have had to terminate many thousands of the Grounders to make enough of the vaccine for the entire population. 

And he would have done it without a second thought.  Megatron would sacrifice the function of every Grounder on the planet for those of his people in a spark beat.

Even with this startling revelation the Wing Lord was reluctant to accept the idea of mating with the primitives. 

As was Megatron.  “Are you sure they can even produce flight frames?  According to your findings they are already breeding out of control.  The last thing we would need is to be overrun by fragging Grounders.” 

Skyfire shook his helm.  “Let me assure you, my lord, that will not be a problem.  Before the war, mating between Flyers and Grounders was common.  And from old research studies that we found in the archives, we discovered that the genes in the CNA that produce flight frames are the dominant ones.  Statistically, two thirds of every clutch should be flight frames.  In fact, there are Flyers hatched to the Barbarians today.  The flight genes are very resilient, even this far removed from the source.  And obviously, those Flyers are immune as well.”

“Really?  The Grounders do not harm them?” asked Megatron.  Any Vosian would have been scandalized to find a Grounder podling in their clutch.  He had no doubt that if such a thing had ever happened in Vos, the podling would have been disposed of immediately.

“On the contrary,” Skyfire assured.  “So far we have documented the presence of seven Wilding Seekers scattered amongst the tribes we have observed.  We have never seen one treated with anything but the same respect they show one another.”

“Perhaps the Grounders are more civilized than we ever suspected,” said Thundercracker, who was a scientist in his own right.  He had been instrumental in curing the plague.

The virus itself was engineered by a scientist who was simply trying to create a means of population control for scraplets.  At first it worked to a degree, helping to control the dangerously prolific vermin.  But he was not satisfied.  He kept experimenting, making the virus more potent.   His aim was to curtail the scraplets’ ability to reproduce.

To the sorrow of every Flyer on Cybertron, his manipulation of the virus had devastating unforeseen consequences.   One careless moment in his lab left him infected.  The virus quickly spread out of control, killing over three fourths of Vos’ population and leaving the survivors barren.   

“I admit I was also dubious of this solution when Skyfire first proposed it to us.  However, knowing the majority of any clutch will be Flight Frames is very persuasive.  It should help encourage our people to accept the Grounders as mates,” said the blue Seeker.

“You have always been a bit of a purist.  You would really be willing to take a Grounder as our mate, Thunder?” asked Skywarp. 

“If it means having podlings, yes,” said the blue Seeker, taking Skywarp’s servo when he recognized the pain in the purple mech’s optics.  Skywarp had been sparked when the plague struck.  

Thundercracker touched his mate’s cheek gently.  “They cannot replace the little ones we lost.  But we can have a family.” 

 “We must find those Wildling Flyers and bring them to Vos where they belong.”  Megatron turned towards Starscream.  “Perhaps we can take one of them to berth.”

“Tempting,” admitted Starscream.  “But if we are to ask our people to mate with Grounders you and I must set an example.  We are obliged to take a Grounder.” He then switched to their private com.  _‘Although if we can eventually bring enough of the barbarians here, perhaps we could have one of the Wildling Seekers also.’_

“What about the Grounder podlings?” asked Skywarp.  “Personally, I do not have a problem with the idea of raising them.  I will cherish every sparklings Thundercracker and I sire.  But not everyone will feel that way.”

“That is true,” admitted Thundercracker.  “Grounders have been vilified in our culture since the war.  Many do not think of them as true mechs with Primus given sparks.  Some of our people will not want those sparklings.  Then again, some will not want to put their spike in a ‘filthy barbarians’.   Even to save our species.”

“Enough will agree.  Besides, before the virus struck numerous facilities existed for the care of unwanted and orphaned sparklings.  There is no reason they cannot be reopened,” injected Megatron.  “Make it clear to any who take a Grounder as mate that they can send any unwanted Grounder podlings to those centers.”

“I suppose we must have the option, but I would not recommend it,” Skyfire cautioned.  “We should try to encourage our mechs to let the Grounders keep their sparklings.  One thing that is abundantly clear to even the most casual observer, the Grounders are fiercely protective of their podlings.  One of my teams observed a lone carrier, armed only with a small dagger, kill three grid-wolves to save his bornlings.  If they are to accept becoming carriers for us, we cannot take away some of their sparklings because they do not have wings.”

“We should also make it clear that anyone harming or abusing a Grounder or any sparkling, with or without wings, will be severely punished.  Our numbers have dropped to critical levels and even the wingless sparklings will eventually become breeders,” Starscream huffed.   

He let Skyfire interpret this as confirmation.  The Wing Lord knew his own people.  Many of them would find the idea that they sired a Grounder podling disgusting.  Others would see it as an insult.  For the little ones’ own protection, they would have to allow Flyers to be rid of the offending bornlings.  “I would rather we only allow mechs that will be sires to every sparkling they create to take a Grounder mate.  Let the bloodlines of those fools that would not keep them die out.  Cybertron will be better off.”

“You know that will not be possible,” countered Thundercracker.  “The Councilors and other powerful mechs will demand fertile mates.  Even if they want nothing to do with a third of the sparklings they sire.”

“None of this is important.  According to Skyfire’s report the Grounders are already starting to make their way towards their storm season camps,” interjected Megatron.  “Once they get into the deep desert they will be out of our reach for six lunar cycles.”  Starscream raised an optic ridge at his mate’s sudden change of processor.

“What?” the gray mech asked.  “I may not be a scientist, but neither am I a fool.  This appears to be the only way for us to survive.  Attrition has already begun to take its toll on what is left of our population.  We need to get those Grounders here and sparked up as soon as possible.”

“You are right.  We can work out the details later,” said Starscream with annoyance.  “Skyfire, what do you recommend?”

The shuttle thought for a moment.  “My team is currently observing a tribe camped near the ruins of the Temple of Primus at Iacon.  It consists of twenty-seven individuals, with seventeen mechs that appear to be breeding age, six younglings, two probable adolescents and two elders.”

“Prepare an escort,” ordered Starscream.  “We leave at once.”

 

To be continued.


	2. Making A Good First Impression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starscream tries to convince the Grounders to come to Vos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning – Nothing in this chapter but Starscream doing a bit of perving.
> 
> I do not own the Transformers etc. and any mistakes are my own.

A solar cycle later the Wing Lord pulled his field close as he finally had the chance to observe the Grounders for himself.  

Skyfire’s team was camped in a holographically camouflaged gully ten klicks from the ruined temple where the Grounders went about the business of survival.  Strategically placed surveillance equipment recorded their simple domestic activities.  Images of mechs cooking, weaving, sharpening weapons and collecting eggs were accompanied by the occasional braying, clucking or baaing of the tribe’s zap horses, robo-chickens and gallium-goats respectively. 

They could even hear the low voices of a few of the tribe members singing. 

It was very peaceful there in the shadow of the crumbling temple.

Hadeen was starting to set.  Some of the adults were returning from the short trek to pick metalo-plants and fill skins with energon from the nearby well.  The two elders sat beside a firepit at the center of the camp entertaining the sparklings. 

One pale blue mech was apparently telling the bitlets a story.  He made broad gestures and used his vocalizer to make many different mech-animals.  The older mech had four of the little ones enthralled while other two much younger, smaller sparklings snuggled in the lap of the other elder. 

One mechling was sucking its thumb, obviously in recharge.

Starscream could feel longing and a little envy in the fields of the mechs around him as they watched the bitlets.

Both of the mech watching the sparklings were old, but one appeared to be positively ancient.  He even had odd strands growing from his upper lip plate.   His servo was slowly rubbed the back of the sparkling in his lap that was still awake.  He smiled as its optics slowly dimmed.

The hunters had recently returned with three large dioptise-deer.  Several mechs were already in the process of preparing the meat and hides.  Meanwhile, the two adolescents and one adult mech, all with the distinct door-wings of Praxians, watched over the tribe’s herds of gallium-goats and zap-horses as the mech-animals returned from the energon well.

Starscream had always heard that there were no more Praxians.  The door-winged mechs were supposedly hunted down and exterminated after the Grounders’ defeat because they were so closely related to Flyers.  

It seems they had found yet another fallacy in the narrative left by their ancestors of the barbaric Grounders.

The next thing both Starscream and his Lord Protector realized was that the non-Praxian Grounders were not nearly so ungainly or frankly, as ugly as they expected from the pictures from the archives.  Now they wondered if those images had been altered. 

They had expected mating with them to be a chore. 

Some of the primitives were quit…alluring. 

He heard some of his guards talking about a pair of very lovely Grounders.  One blue and white, the other almost completely dark blue.  He could not blame them.  Both mechs were beautiful.

But he and Megatron had their optics on the mech that appeared to be the tribe’s leader.

He was very tall.  Only one warrior of the tribe was his equal in height.  His hips were slender and rolled enticingly as he walked.  His chest was broad and powerful.  His chassis was mostly bright red while his long, shapely legs were dark blue up to the knee joints, then became silver.  He was decorated, unlike most of his tribemates.  On each shoulder, a scowling face plate had been painted.  

When they first saw the regal mech, Starscream realized he recognized the symbol from the catacombs of the temple at Vos.  It was an ancient representation of Primus.

Skyfire speculated that the handsome mech was most likely a priest of some kind.   He also postulated that the Grounders were governed by a Theocracy.   His mechs had observed several tribes and mechs such as him appeared to be the highest authority in the tribes.  Even the leader of the hunters deferred to the mechs who carried those markings.

Little was known of the social structure of the barbarians.  Only a few very dedicated behavioral scientists took any interest in them at all before the virus struck.   As long as they stayed in the desert and came nowhere near Vos, no one gave a scraplet’s backside what they did.  

He was treated with deference by the other mechs and absolutely adored by the tribes’ sparklings.  He allowed the little ones to climb all over his lanky frame.  He often had at least one mechling either swinging from his arms or clinging to his shin guards, back, or chest plate. 

He never became short with the sparklings for treating him as a climbing gym.  He had an infinite amount of patience where they were concerned. 

He was also sleek, sexy and gorgeous.  One thing the Wing Lord and his Lord Protector had agreed on as soon as they laid optics on this mech, he would be theirs.  After all, he was obviously of high rank, had an exquisite chassis and was amazingly good with rowdy younglings. 

A perfect carrier for the ruling dyad.

Starscream already had a plan in mind to bring in the Grounders.  He alone would make initial contact with the skittish primitives and try to convince them to come to Vos. 

Megatron thought that would be a waste of time.  He wanted to hit them hard.  Come in literally with guns blazing.  Terrorize and if necessary, beat the primitives into submission. 

The Wing Lord was concerned over his Lord Protector’s sudden eagerness to get a Grounder to their berth, even if by force.  Or was that especially by force?  It was a little disconcerting.   As was the undercurrent of lust that bled through their bond since his mate had first seen the Grounders’ leader. 

His Lord Protector was, of necessity, a dominant mech.  The Seeker enjoyed this aspect of their relationship.  Interfacing was often so intense it was almost more a battle than sex.   A battle that he had to admit was just as satisfying to lose as to win.

He should not be surprised that Megatron was excited at the prospect of having a mech that he could completely dominate in their berth.  

Although he realized quickly that what Megatron was feeling was a lot more than simple lust for an admittedly desirable mech.

_‘I know the face plate of that beautiful barbarian better than I know my own, Starscream,_ ’ he admitted as they discussed their plans to bring in the tribe.  _‘He has haunted my recharge since I was a new spark.  I thought him only a fantasy.  At one time I felt shame for desiring a Grounder, even when I thought him only a half-remembered recharge flux.  But he is real.  Primus has lead us here to this place.  To him.  He is ours.  He must be ours!’_

Megatron remembered how those vision of the mystery mech changed as they both matured.  At first it was simple curiosity and fascination, watching this strange mech turn from a sweet sparkling to a tall, gangly adolescent.  But as his own interface protocols came online, the gray mech soon felt the stirring of his desire as his mysterious childhood friend became the exquisite beauty who was now so close he could almost touch him.

Starscream did not know any of this because he and Megatron had were not spark bonded.  They merged often, but neither had desired the intrusive permanence of a bond.

Faced with feeling so intense they could no longer be hidden, even from their superficial connection, Starscream was not sure if he should be aroused, jealous, or nervous. 

It would be easy for him to be swept away by his Lord Protector’s strong emotions.  Fortunately for the Grounders, Thundercracker and his more level-headed advisors made a compelling case for restraint.  

Starscream quickly found himself siding with those calling for calm.  If this turned into an energon bath, they could lose valuable breeders.  Not to mention they would garner the resentment, if not downright hatred of their intended mates.  They wanted to create podlings with these mechs.  There was no better way for them to hamper this outcome then to have the Grounders’ sparks filled with hatred and fear. 

Megatron and those on his side pointed out that it did not matter.  When their scientists were trying to find a way to restore their fertility they had developed a serum that would put any mech into heat. 

It did the Seekers no good since the virus destroyed their gestational chambers.  What it would do in this circumstance is make sparking the Grounders a virtual certainty.  Also, the serum would rob the Grounders of their higher processor functions and turn them into interface starved mech-animals, making them much easier to handle. 

At least temporarily. 

While that would result in sparklings, Starscream noted that the heat would only last three to five solar cycles at most.  When the Grounders were no longer under the influence of the drug they would have to deal with angry, perhaps even distraught, sparked up mechs.

If they were forced to restrain the Grounders, it would cause stress.  Mechs that were stressed, fearful, or otherwise experiencing strong negative emotions for long periods of time were much less likely to carry to term.   

So were sedated ones, which negated Skywarp’s idea of drugging them into compliance. 

To make this work they would need to try and persuade the Grounders to accept them.  It was his hope that with the right incentive the primitive mechs would welcome the chance to live in the spender of Vos.

After all, who would not prefer the luxury of the towers as opposed to scratching a meager existence out of the barren wastes?

Once his mechs were in place, hidden strategically around the unsuspecting Grounders’ camp, Starscream sent out a general com.  ‘Do not move until I say so.   Unless I am attacked.  In which case, you are to get my aft out of there in one piece, Skywarp.  But if that happens, do not kill unless necessary.  And do everything you can to keep the spaklings safe.’

Megatron wanted to be the one to make contact.  It was his sacred duty to protect his Wing Lord.  And, despite their rather public arguments, the Lord Protector loved his mate and wanted to keep him safe.

Starscream flatly refused to let Megatron go in his place. 

Besides the fact that his Lord Protector was a little too eager for a confrontation, he had no doubt that his slim, sleek frame would be a much less intimidating sight for the Grounders than his massive mate.  The hulking Lord High Protector with his broad, spiked shoulders, scared face plate, razor sharp claws and sharpened dentas could send veteran warbuilds scurrying in fear.

They would be far less likely to attack the Seeker on sight than his fearsome mate. 

 

He landed in plain sight just outside the village, causing a flurry of activity.  The younglings were immediately snatched up by the two elders and rushed into a nearby tent. 

A pretty young mech with orange flame markings cried out in alarm as his optics found Starscream.  With a look of pure terror on his face plate he clasped a metalo-plant fiber sling protectively, turned and rushed into a large tent near the edge of the camp.  At the same time twelve of the tribe’s warriors charged out of the village towards him.  They were led by a massive blue and white colored mech.   The only one that was close to their leader’s height,

As befitted his size and appearance, this mech was in charge of the hunters.  Each day cycle that the tribe was not on the move, he took them into the desert in search of prey.  According to the reports of Skyfire’s team, few were the times his mechs did not bring plenty of game back to their waiting tribemates.  Everything from wild zap-horses, gallium-goats, barium-boar, diaptase-deer, petro-rabbits, crystal-grouse, even dangerous grid-wolves all fell to the blades, spears and crossbows of his hunters.

The big mech’s plates flared, making his already imposing form even larger as he growled something in their painfully guttural language.  His voice was just as deep as the Seeker expected.  First the snarling mech pointed his spear at Starscream, then in the general direction of Vos.  To finish his comment, he made a slashing motion across his throat with his spear.

He did not need a translator to understand that, although a moment later the grating metallic voice of the one Skyfire had given him dutifully droned in his audio, ‘Winged One not wanted.  Return to towers or die.’

When he did not move, the warrior took a step towards him, motioning for the others to surround the Seeker.  “Ultra Magnus!” rumbled a voice almost as deep and resonate.  It came from the communal tent that sat in the center of the camp.  Starscream presumed ‘Ultra Magnus’ was a name, considering how the big warrior whipped his helm around as the handsome tribal leader stepped out of the tent.  This was followed by a stream of concise words in the Grounders’ harsh language. 

He was surprised as his translator relayed the priest’s words. ‘Ultra Magnus!  Winged One alone.   Not armed.  None come for long time.  Proper signals not made, but may be here to trade.’

That surprised Starscream.  ‘Proper signals?’ came the com from an equally puzzled Megatron.  

‘It seems that our people and the Grounders are not quite so out of touch as we thought,’ Starscream told his mate. ‘This has gone on for some time if they have a system of communication in place.’ 

The other Grounders quickly snapped to attention at their leader’s approach. 

The regal mech held out his servos to show that he was not armed as he turned to Starscream.  “Greetings, Winded One.  I am Optimus, a Shaman of the Tribes of Iacon.  Why have you come?” the new mech asked in oddly accented, but surprisingly fluent Vosian.

“You speak our language well,” complimented Starscream.  That was unexpected.

“I have studied this language from our ancient texts.  Also, your kin sometimes come to trade for energon crystals, Crystal Grouse feathers, rare metals and fire gems,” said Optimus.  “Some among the tribes have learned your tongue to make trading easier.”

“I have not come to trade,” the Seeker said as he looked over the very nervous Grounders. “I come as an official representative of the City State of Vos.  My people wish to offer an alliance.  The war that ravaged our world and sent your people into exile ended long ago.  The reasons our ancestors fought no longer have any meaning.  We would bring your people out of this barren wasteland and return them to civilization.  We want to bring your people to Vos.”

Optimus cocked his helm, as if not sure he heard the Seeker correctly.  “Your offer is generous, Winged One, but unnecessary.  We would welcome more trade with your people, particularly medicines.  Any of your kind who come in peace have always been welcome.  But the Badlands are our home.   Primus below feels the tread of our wheels on the sand and blesses us with good hunting, pure energon springs and strong younglings.  We have no reason to leave his protection for the towers in the air.”

Starscream was shocked at the answer.  “But this place is so barren and harsh.  Do you not want your sparklings to have an easier life?” 

“Easier is not necessarily better,” countered the Grounder.  “It is true life here can be hard, but that is part of what makes it worth living.  Primus sends challenges.  We become stronger in overcoming them.”

‘Unicron’s bearings, this mech is insane,’ noted Megatron unkindly through his com. Starscream ignored him.

“Surely if they had the option, some of your people would prefer living in a permanent home instead of being constantly on the move?  Here they overheat during the day and freeze at night.  If they come to Vos they could have all the energon they want, whenever they want and do not have to kill other living things to obtain it.  If you join with us, your sparklings will not be attacked by beasts, or die of infections that could be easily cured with simple medications.  Those sparklings could learn to be doctors or scientists as they could before the war.  They can reach for the stars instead of rolling in the dirt.”

Optimus looked surprised at this.  He had not thought about it in that way.  “There is merit in what you propose, Winged One.  I have no doubt that some in the tribes would welcome the things you offer,” admitted the red and blue mech thoughtfully.  “And I do believe that our people have been divided for far too long.  That is not what Primus intended.  Besides, it would be wrong of me to arbitrarily make that choice for all of my people.”

“Then you will allow me to ask your tribemates if they wish to join with us?” asked Starscream. 

“You have a devise that makes you able to understand our language after a fashion.  Can it make your words understandable to my people, or will you need me to translate?”

“I have a way to use it so that your people can understand me.”  Skyfire had showed him how to use the translator to speak to the Grounders.  He just needed to reverse the translation module and turn up the volume.  He did wish the voice module was more… expressive.  It would not be able to convey his emotion.  His passion.  Even so, he knew what he offered would be a temptation to the Grounders.

‘This is ridiculous,’ grumbled Megatron over the com as the Shaman ushered him into the village.  ‘Starscream, we need breeders now.  We do not have time to coddle these babbling primitives.   That mech will carry our podlings and it is time he knew it.  Let me bring the troops in and take them.’

‘Did you not listen to anything I said?  Be patient,’ he chided.  ‘Let me talk to them and try to convince them to come to Vos.  Everything will be much easier if I can get them to come of their own free will.’

‘And if they will not?’

‘Then we do it your way.  But taking them by force must be the last resort.  Not the first.’

Starscream was feeling confident.  He had his speech espousing the benefits of coming to Vos ready.  He was sure that most of the tribe would jump at the chance to live in the towers.  Even the poorest Seekers lived in luxury compared to the squalor of the Grounder camp.

The Wing Lord was feeling confident, sure that he would soon have the primitives eating out of his servos. 

And that was when everything went to the Pit. 

Starscream was watching the sexy Shaman’s aft.  As he followed the tall mech his optics had gravitated directly to those sweet, rolling hips.  He could not help it.  That was one magnificent aft!  Unfortunately, he did not realize just how blatant his stare was.  One of the tribe’s warriors noticed and took offence.

The Wing Lord was brought up short as a red chassis suddenly stepped between him and that tight aft.   The scowling hunter drew his razor-sharp sword.  ‘You defile our Shaman!’ the translator droned as the relatively small Grounder waved the blade threateningly.

‘Cliffjumper, the Winged One did not mean to offend…’ The translation that droned in Starscream’s audio was cut off as he felt a pair of arms wrap around his waist and the world shifted with a loud ‘Bamf’ sound. 

Starscream opened his intake to call for calm, but there was no one to hear but Skyfire and a couple of other shell-shocked scientists.  Skywarp had teleported him, then disappeared as soon as he deposited his Wing Lord in the science team’s shelter. 

The Wing Lord turned to the monitors and was absolutely appalled at what he saw.  As soon as Starscream was out of danger, Megatron and his guards had stormed the camp!

Every monitor on the console showed horrific scenes of flashing weapons and spilled energon. 

Angrily the Wing Lord rushed out of the shelter and launched himself into the air.  With single minded purpose, Starscream kicked in his afterburners and raced towards the sounds of battle. 

He had to reach the camp before the Grounders were slaughtered! 

 

To be continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: We see the aftermath of the ‘battle’.


	3. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Starscream is threatened, Megatron reacts with overwhelming force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MPORTANT: This chapter is where things really start to get dark. Triggery content ahead. 
> 
> Warnings – Disturbing Imagery. Prejudice from ignorance, Violence, Major Character Deaths, Death of Sparklings
> 
> I do not own the Transformers etc. and any mistakes are my own.

***Some readers will want to skip the marked section of the story.  Anyone that does will still know what Starscream and Megatron find through later dialog but may prefer not to read the details.***

 

_Angrily the Wing Lord rushed out of the shelter and launched himself into the air.  With single minded purpose, he kicked in his afterburners and raced towards the sounds of battle._

_He had to reach the camp before the Grounders were slaughtered!_

 

Starscream’s spark sank as he circled high above the Grounder camp. 

He was too late. 

Three of the tribe’s hunters’ lay in contorted, energon soaked, gray heaps on the sand. 

He instantly recognized the one the Shaman had called ‘Cliffjumper’.   The small red frame had been shot multiple times from all sides. 

Many more than would be needed to terminate the minibot.

Six other hunters were down and being put in restraints by Seekers.  Several of them were badly wounded, but at least they were still alive. 

The sounds of blasters and shrieks of injured and dying mechs and mech-animals filled the air.

“Stop this at once!” he ordered as he landed near the firepit at the center of the camp. 

As soon as he touched down.  Starscream was forced to dodge as the tall, thin elder with the odd facial strands came at him with a wicked looking spear.   The mech turned and he braced for another attack, but it never came.

Before the elderly bot could charge him again, he cried out as a hail of blaster fire peppered his helm and chest plate. 

He had already begun to turn gray before his chassis even struck the ground.

“CEASE FIRING!” Starscream roared in frustration. 

This time the sounds of blaster fire did stop. 

Because every Grounder was incapacitated.

Or dead.

Furious as he was at this disastrous turn of events, Starscream felt a flare of relief when his optics found Optimus.  Surrounded by guards, the red and blue mech was bound and unconscious on the ground but looked to be relatively unharmed. 

The sleek mech had some shallow cuts and dents in his armor but nothing function threatening.  The Wing Lord had feared that the handsome Grounder would be seriously damaged or even killed when the chaos started. 

He would wager that his mate had preemptively assigned those mechs to swiftly incapacitate and bind him in case things went badly.

Once satisfied that Optimus was safe, Starscream realized that he could still hear sounds of a struggle nearby.   He ran towards it, circling behind the largest tent.  

Pushing past several cheering guards he discovered that Megatron was fighting the mech called Ultra Magnus. 

Well, fighting was not the right word.  The big blue and white mech had been wounded.  Struck once high on his right leg strut.  He was on one knee, unable to stand.  He had no weapon, but still managed to rake his claws across the plating of the Lord Protector’s thigh and side.  

Starscream winced at the energon that welled up in the jagged, but thankfully shallow wounds.  However, he knew that Megatron was in no danger.  As did the excited guards.  

They were making bets on how long the Grounder would last. 

In the meantime, Megatron’s spark sang with the thrill of battle.  He was reveling in the challenge posed by the primitive. 

Starscream feared he was about to witness the loss of another potential breeder.   However, one last powerful punch to the face plate sent the Grounder toppling onto his side. 

He lay still, optics dark.

Megatron smirked as he looked over the off-line mech.   “Bind the Grounder and get him to a transport,” he ordered the guards.  They rushed in to obey as he turned to his mate. “It is a shame he was injured before we could truly match our strength.  Such a magnificent creature.  He will produce many strong sparklings once he is tamed.”

“Those will not,” snarled Starscream, gesturing towards the twisted forms of the deactivated Grounders. 

Before Megatron had the chance to answer, a high-pitched noise caught their attention.  It was the cries of the sparklings.  The frightened mechlings were being dragged from a half-collapsed tent. 

They sobbed and thrashed in the arms of his guards.  The Seekers were at a loss about how to react as the wailing sparklings kicked, bit and clawed at them as they attempted to wriggle free.

They all shrieked out a single word between their pitiable sobs and screams.  When they came closer his translator came to life. ‘Carrier.  Carrier.  Carrier.’  The flat, emotionless translation of their desperate cries was strangely chilling. 

The Wing Lord gasped when he realized two of the guards holding the sparklings were covered with energon.   Although Starscream was relieved to see that all six of the sparklings were uninjured, he wanted to know what in the Pit had occurred in that tent!

One of the guards noticed his angry glare.  “There was no choice, my Lord.  An elderly mech was guarding the sparklings.  We tried to take him alive, but he attacked us with a sword when we approached.  He refused to stop fighting, even when wounded.”

“The storyteller,” noted the Wing Lord with a shudder.  He recalled how happy the sparklings had been listening to the old mech’s tales.  

By the amount of energon on his mechs, the sparklings had just watched one of their beloved caregivers being hacked to pieces. 

No wonder the poor things were hysterical!

Starscream was about to order his medic, Pharma, to sedate the sparklings when a member of his escort stumbled out of one of the tents near the edge of the camp. 

There were several holes in the walls where blaster shots had pierced the tough fabric.

The young Seeker dropped his weapon as he fell to his knees and noisily purged his tanks.   He had his optics tightly shuttered.  Coolant leaked freely from them.

Puzzled, Starscream rushed over to the tent with Megatron at his heels.  

*************

Upon entering, both mechs froze. 

The sight that greeted them was horrific.  

The pretty young mech with the orange flame markings was already slate gray.  One of the stray shots that had gone through the wall of the tent had struck him square in the spark chamber, killing him instantly. 

The blast had also hit the sling he had clutched so protectively to his chest plate. 

That was when the rulers of Vos discovered the reason the young Seeker had purged. 

Starscream was no naive youngling.  He had seen death many times.  He had been forced to kill before.  It was not something he enjoyed, but he had done so without remorse.

The Tri-colored Seeker had never seen anything like this.

The Wing Lord almost purged himself as his optics scanned the contents of the sling that had spilled onto a mech-animal pelt on the floor.  

A miniscule severed servo, three peds, two partial helms and a singed chest plate along with other twisted, smoking bits and pieces of energon splattered, melted metal that he could not identify.  

“Primus below,” whispered the Wing Lord unable to take his optics from the pathetic, smoldering remains.  “Bornlings…  They were just bornlings.  Megatron, what have we done?”

“Wait. What is this?” the Lord Protector knelt down and to grasp part of the material from the sling.  Starscream realized that it was moving.  With surprising care, those massive claws lifted the torn, smoking cloth to reveal two tiny, damaged, but very much alive bornlings. 

One had a burn on his back.  The other’s right leg strut was bent badly. 

Two pairs of bright blue optics stared up at the Wing Lord and his Lord Protector with terror.  They clutched at one another and keened in fear and pain.

“Medic!” Starscream yelled over his shoulder.  “Medic! Get in here now!”

A moment later Pharma rushed into the tent.  He quickly mastered his shock at the sight of the dead bornlings and knelt beside the ones that he could help.   He carefully began to examine the two injured sparklings as Starscream and Megatron backed out. 

Even the battle-hardened Lord Protector wanted to be anywhere but in that tent.

**********************

“I told you not to kill,” said Starscream dejectedly as they strode past several of the less damaged Grounders being loaded into the transports.

“Unless it was necessary,” finished Megatron coldly.  “That Grounder attacked you.  We had to act.  While it is regrettable that we lost some of the breeders, recriminations will do nothing to help the situation.  We did what we could to take as many as possible alive.  But in some instances, it was kill or be killed.  Their weapons may be primitive, but the Grounders are still formidable warriors.  We are lucky that we managed to subdue as many as we did.  The carrier and bornlings were collateral damage.  Unfortunate, but such things are a distasteful, but inevitable part of battle.  Frankly, it is amazing that any of the little ones survived at all, let alone two.”

“No one should have died!  For Primus sake, it was a fragging minibot!  I was not in any danger,” Starscream grumbled. 

“The Grounders are uncivilized barbarians without honor.  It is said they use poison on their blades.  We could not take the chance,” countered Megatron.

“Said by the same mechs that reported that the Grounder had slaughtered all of the Praxians?” The two mechs glared at one another, but the Wing Lord looked away first.   “I suppose it does not matter now.  What’s done is done. There is nothing we can do to change what happened,” Starscream conceded.   “We need to get all of the survivors to Vos and make sure the wounded are given the best care possible.  We cannot afford to lose more breeders.  Once we reach the palace we can decide how best to proceed.”

One of his mechs came close to the pair.  He was carrying a red minibot. 

The primitive was in restraints but unlike the other adults, he continued to thrash and try to get away. The barbarian was shouting something.

‘My sparklings.  Where my sparklings?’ The Wing Lord froze at the bland translation as they came within range of his device.  He turned to where the guards were still trying to hold the squirming bitlets.  The two smaller ones were also bright red.  

Not that it would have helped identify the creators.  Red seemed to be the most common color nanites among the Grounders.

“Bring the two smaller sparklings here,” Starscream ordered his guards.  The ones holding them looked surprised but did as they were instructed.

As soon as they were close, the little ones stopped fighting.  They leaned towards the bound mech with their little arms outstretched and began chirping.  

Again, the unemotional translation seemed utterly wrong.  ‘Carrier, hold me.  Carrier.’

“Place them on the minibot,” he ordered. 

Once they were set on their carrier’s abdomen, the bitlets little fingers slipped into the seams of his armor.  The minibot looked at him with hesitant gratitude.  He kissed each little helm and began to croon softly to the now quiet sparklings.

Starscream felt himself relax a little as the sparklings’ agitation eased. “Find the other carrier and let those sparklings stay with him.”

“How do we do that, my Lord?” asked one of the guards holding one of the older sparklings.  They were mostly white with light blue accents.  Less common than red, but still there were several with those colors.

“Just walk past the Grounders.  They will let you know when you find their carrier,” Starscream explained. 

“But, sir, what if their carrier is deactivated?” asked the guard.

As it turned out, his concern was unnecessary.  The sleek white and blue mech they had been admiring on the monitor earlier was being dragged past them at that moment.  The Grounder spotted the sparklings and kicked his captor in the knee joint causing the Seeker’s hold on the barbarian to falter.  Several blasters were raised as the still bound Grounder stumbled away from the startled guard. 

“Harm him and I will shoot you myself,” growled Starscream.

The desperate mech obviously had no intension of escaping.  He made straight for his sobbing sparklings and fell to his knee joints before the mechs holding them.   His beautiful blue optics were wet with coolant as he looked up at the Flyers. 

‘Please, no hurt sparklings,’ the translator droned. 

If there was any doubt that this was their carrier the sparklings immediately began reaching for him, whimpering. 

“Let the sparklings go to him,” Megatron ordered, startling Starscream.  He looked up at his mate in surprise as the guards set the mechlings down on the sand.  They immediately leapt on their carrier, latching on to any bit of armor they could.

The only sounds from the family was the soft mummers of reassurance from the carrier.

Starscream raised an orbital ridge.  This was uncharacteristically companionate for the Lord Protector. 

Megatron shrugged.  “Obviously, allowing them to stay with their carrier will keep them quiet and docile during the trip to Vos.”    

At least the sparklings were no longer crying. 

The other conscious Grounders had been thoroughly cowed, optics downcast and shoulder struts slumped in defeat. 

The ones still on their peds were all smaller mechs, those that did not go out with the hunters.  It was likely that most of them were mates to the more aggressive mechs.

Watching them being herded towards the transports, Starscream felt a small pang of guilt.  This was something that they had not even considered before setting out to collect the Grounders. 

Some of these mechs already had mates. 

“It makes no difference.  If anything, the submissive mechs will be easier to tame,” was Megatron’s opinion when he mentioned it.  At his mate’s frown he continued.  “Look at the two of us.  We are both dominate.  That is why we never managed to have sparklings, even when we physically were able.  We are meant to be sires.”

“Now that I look at them, I find myself wondering, do we have the right?  This was something I never even considered when we started this endeavor.  We are breaking up families, separating bond mates.”

The Lord Protector grunted, unconvinced.  “Do not allow your resolve to falter, my Wing Lord.  The survival of Vos itself is at stake.  Besides, we have already conquered this tribe.   The mates of those mechs that have been deactivated now have no protector, no provider.  They would die if left on their own.  It is our duty to claim and care for them.  It would be irresponsible of us to do otherwise.”

“I had not thought about it that way,” admitted Starscream, although he was still uneasy. “But what about the hunters that survive? They are also dominate mechs.”

“Not anymore,” countered Megatron.  “They are barbarians, Starscream.  Uncivilized brutes. We are doing them a favor by taking them from this desolate wasteland.  Do not concern yourself.  They will forget their prior existence soon enough.  Eventually their primitive processors will understand that being taken as mates by us is a blessing from Primus.”

Looking around the smoking ruin of the camp, Starscream shook his helm.   He was not so sure about his mate’s assessment.  However, there was one thing he had to concede.  “It is hard to believe that any mech could even survive in this horrible place.” 

Still that very unfamiliar feeling of guilt kept trying to creep into his processor.  He had to push those thoughts away.  Megatron was right.  Things had gone badly, but they needed these breeders desperately.  That was the entire reason for coming here.  The deaths were unfortunate.  Still, this was necessary.  Vos’ population was already at a critical level, and the Grounders were their only hope. 

With a sigh Starscream turned back to watch as the last two Grounders were being loaded into the transport. 

The adolescent Praxians were each being carried over the shoulders of his guards.  The blue one was limp but appeared undamaged.  The other was making strange noises.  He did not speak, just beeped and chirped, sounding like a very young sparkling. 

The mech carrying the young Praxian smacked it on the aft.  “Enough!  Noisy Barbarian,” he grumbled.  “Be quiet or I will gag you!”

The young mech may not have understood the words, but the pain on his aft and the tone seemed to get the message across.  The yellow Grounder fell silent.

Starscream almost snapped at the guard for being unnecessarily rough with the young mech, but instead found himself leaning back against his mate.  He felt utterly exhausted both physically and emotionally.  He sighed as a pair of strong arms wrapped around him from behind.  “Everything will work out, my mate,” rumbled his Lord Protector.  “Just think, very soon we will have the lovely Shaman, Optimus writhing between us, filling him with our transfluids.”  The large mech’s chassis warmed at the thought.

“Yes.” Starscream had to admit that he was anxious to have the sleek Grounder in their berth.   But his mood soured as he looked over the remains of the camp.  He shuttered his optics, wanting to purge the memories of the tattered tents and smoking chassis of gallium-goats and zap-horses that had been caught in the crossfire. 

At least his mechs had removed the bodies of the deactivated Grounders.  They had already been loaded on the transports and would be taken back to Vos for their scientists to study.

Turning away, the Wing Lord of Vos looked to his mate.  “We have what we came for.  Let’s go home.”

 

To be continued.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The Flyers have won, what will they do with their captives?


	4. Spoils of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starscream and his mechs decide the fate of the captive Grounders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Character Deaths, Mentions of past deaths. Mentions of terminating unborn sparklings. 
> 
> I do not own Transformers etc and any mistakes are my own.

Despite the best efforts of Pharma and the other medics, three of the injured Grounders did not survive the trip to Vos.  Their wounds were too severe to treat with the limited resources available in the transports.

Three of the tribe mechs each began wailing as one by one the dying bots’ frames slowly turned gray. 

Obviously, these were their mates.

 

Even with the loss of the three damaged Grounders, at first it appeared that the rest of the journey to Vos would be relatively uneventful, at least from the guards’ point of view.  The captive mechs were quiet except the occasional sob, or low growl if a Seeker came too close.  Still, it appeared the barbarians were too frightened to fight.

However, the Grounders were not quite so cowed as their captors thought. 

Once the Seekers became complacent enough to take their optics from the huddled mechs, the Grounders began sharing sly nods, whispered words and glances.

Several looked to one particularly unassuming mech.  He inclined his helm as one of the hunters gave him a quick smile.  Several of his tribemates edged closer and leaned against him.  To the guards this was the norm.  The barbarians all wanted to huddle together. 

But in this case they did more than comfort a distraught member of the tribe.  They were concealing him from their captors’ view.

It turned out that the boxy red and yellow barbarian was a Dock. 

Docks or Hosts as they were also known were extremely rare since the loss of the All Spark.  A variation of split spark twins, a Dock emerged with the tiny, undeveloped cassettes inside his chassis.  

It took many stellar cycles for the tiny protoforms to mature enough to emerge from the Dock’s chest.  

Docks were fertile, although they could rarely carry more than one podling at a time because of limited space.  The apparatus for the symbiots took up much of the room in their chests.  

Their smaller siblings were incapable of reproducing.  Their sparks are too small and weak to be able to support them.

 

_“We had only been observing this tribe for two solar cycles.  The Dock had not released his symbiots where we could observe and document them during that time,” Skyfire later explained to the Wing Lord._

_"That was also why they did not know about the bornlings," he said sadly.  The carrier had still been recovering from emergence and had just come out of the tent a short time before the Wing Lord’s party had arrived._

 

The cassettes remained in hiding until the guards began to relax.  With all the Grounders in the transport in restraints and seemingly broken, the guards grew bored.  A couple of them started playing a card game, which soon became the center of attention.

While the Flyers entertained themselves, the barbarians watched and waited. 

The Dock was curled up in a corner with three other mechs.  No one gave him a second look since the boxy frame shape was not unusual for Grounders.  When he knew that he was not being observed, the Dock opened his chest plates and allowed his cassettes to slip out. 

Two sparkling sized mechs and a sleek beast-former melted into the shadows.

The stealthy symbiots had freed their larger brother from his restraints and were working on the cuffs of three relatively uninjured hunters when one of the guards spotted them.  There would likely have been a fight in the confines of the hold of the transport, except that a quick-acting Seeker bravely dove into the mist of the angry Grounders and managed to catch one of the small mechs by the ankle strut before they freed any of the warriors. 

He lifted the shrieking symbiot and jammed his blaster against the small mech’s helm.  “Surrender or he dies, Barbarians!”

It was doubtful that most of them understood a word he said, but the intent was clear.  The little mech dangling by his ankle babbled to its Dock. The translator droned, ‘Leave me, Blaster.  Fight.’

But the Dock, Blaster, and the other two symbiots looked at one another, then dropped to their knees.  The beast-former lay flat on his belly while the Dock and the other little symbiot placed their servos on their helms. 

They would not sacrifice their brother.

Neither would the hunters that had stood, glaring and bearing their dentas menacingly.  Even bound, the Grounders were ready to fight.  But the threat to the little symbiot stopped them.  Each slowly sat back down.  

The last to do so was a large red warrior that one of the symbiots had been trying to free.  A mostly white mech with red accents and chevron leaned in and nuzzled his chest plates, trying to calm him. 

The red Grounder locked optics with the Seeker who was still holding the squirming symbiot.  The words he spat at the guard in his low, gruff voice came out of the translator as in a bland monotone, ‘Zap-horse Fragging Waste Eater’.  

The Dock was quickly bound again.  They had to be creative with the little mechs and beast-former.  The restraints did not fit on their wrists or ankles.  In the end the guards placed one end around the neck cables of the symbiots, the other around the ankles of their host.

 

After they arrived at Vos, most of the survivors of the tribe were placed together in a large holding cell while their captors decided what do with them.    

Optimus was at the center of the frightened remnants of the tribe.  The Shaman did his best to comfort them.  His powerful field encompassed the entire group. 

All of them but the sparklings were in restraints.  Most of the mechs knelt around Optimus as close as they could get.  The adolescence huddled between the adult Praxian and a sleek black and white mech with a blue visor.   

The three symbiots were still chained to their Dock.  They nuzzled against his leg struts. He was very softly playing what sounded like a lullaby.

There was one mech, medium sized with a purple torso and yellow plating on his arms and legs that sat nearby. Strangely, not only did he look very different from most of the tribe, he was the only barbarian that did not huddle close to Optimus.

That Grounder had cautiously approached the door to the cell, but the guards hit him with shock sticks when he tried and speak to them.  He had quickly scrambled back to the group.

The six terrified sparklings were clinging desperately to their carriers.

The four older bitlets almost completely covered the lovely white and blue mech, while the two smaller ones were being fed by the bright red minibot.   His chest plates were open and each of the podlings nursed on a feeding nub.

According to Pharma the sires of both sets of sparklings were among the deactivated mechs. 

The tiny red sparklings had belonged to the warrior Cliffjumper.

Starscream wanted to put his servo through something.  _‘Primus below, could this have gone any worse?’_

There were three more survivors, but they were being kept elsewhere.

The two injured bornlings were under observation by Pharma until he was sure they were out of danger.

The mech called Ultra Magnus was in stasis. 

And he would remain in that state for the foreseeable future.

The large blue and white Grounder had, according to the translator, called the medics that were working on him ‘Murderers,’ the moment he was revived. 

The mech was strapped down on a medical berth, but even barely conscious, he managed to rip the restraints on his right arm free and grabbed the nearest Vosian.  He almost tore the Seeker’s throat cables out with his dentas before he was hit with an EMP generator.  

They did not use an EMP pulse to render him unconscious.  It was not charged.  They were forced to strike him in the back of the helm with the generator repeatedly. This stunned him long enough for him to be sedated.

The injured Seeker would live but would be scarred for life.

If Thundercracker had not been overseeing the treatment of the injured mechs the medics would have terminated the vicious Grounder on the spot.

Megatron informed his Lord that he could tame the brutish mech.  “I have already defeated the primitive once.  I am sure doing so again would break him.  We would have two mechs to carry for us.”

 “No,” said the Wing Lord.  “I have already discussed this with Pharma.  He said that it was better to have only one carrier, even for mates such as ourselves.  We will be dealing with Optimus and all our transfluids will be needed for the podlings he will carry for us.  I will find another to take the warrior.”

“He is too dangerous for any other to even try.  If you and I do not claim him, we will be forced to dispose of him,” insisted Megatron. “That would be a waste.”

“He is in stasis.  We do not have to make a hasty decision.  I was thinking there may be an alternative to force.  Optimus is the Shaman of tribe.  And he did say that he believes that Primus’ children should not be divided.  As their leader, perhaps he can persuade the warrior to accept a Vosian mate?” It was a slim possibility, but Starscream wanted to find an alternative to having the blue and white mech euthanized. 

“You are getting ahead of yourself, my Wing Lord,” noted Megatron with a shake of his helm.  “Optimus must first become our mate.   He will be ours, have no doubt, but I am a realist.  It may take time for him to admit it to himself.”

Starscream knew his mate was right but could not allow himself to simply give up on the warrior.

The scans had shown that Ultra Magnus was the sire of the bornlings.  What happened had been a tragic accident, but they were responsible for the deaths of his mate and two of his sparklings.

Starscream felt a responsibility to try and save him somehow.

His thoughts were interrupted as he found himself looking into the cell.  The Wing Lord quickly turned away with a shuddered when he realized that the Grounders’ frightened blue optic followed his every movement. 

They knew that he must be the leader of the Seekers, for he was the one that brought the warriors down on them.  And it was Starscream that would decide their fate.

He cursed under his breath, damning himself for not being more careful with his orders.  If only Megatron had not been so eager for a fight.  Maybe he could have persuaded the Grounders to come of their own free will?

Starscream had never been in any real danger.  Even if that minibot warrior had not listened to Optimus, the Seeker was sure he could have defused the situation.  And if he had been forced to fight, he could have easily disarmed him.  Perhaps even impressed the tribe, and the Shaman, with his agility. 

Instead, thanks to his guards’ overreaction they had lost a total of seven breeders.  Not to mention the elders and the two bornlings.

His tanks churned at the memory of the tiny, mutilated frames. 

 “We must separate the survivors,” said Thundercracker.  “The breeders need to be in the custody of their new mates and if necessary, put into heat immediately.  Our only option is to isolate and spark them.  Make them come to depend on us and not one another.”

“What of the younglings and two immature Grounders?” asked Skywarp.   The adolescents had been scanned.  Neither would be ready to breed for at least a stellar cycle. 

“Place the younglings in the care of trusted noble families to raise,” rumbled Megatron.  “They will one day become breeders for us.  By the time they are grown and are ready to mate they must be completely integrated into our society.  As for the adolescents, give them to the ones that will be their mates once their breeding protocols come on line.”

“I agree.   But with your permission, Starscream, I will talk to those mechs first.  The adolescents are not yet sexual mature.  We cannot allow them to be rushed into a berth before they are ready.  They will be frightened.  Best to take things slowly, court them,” noted Thundercracker.  

“But what about the sparklings?  Will they be alright away from their creators?  They are so young,” said Skywarp.

“That is true.  Whoever takes them will have to have their feeding apparatus turned on,” Thundercracker told him. “But that is a simple procedure and I already have a number of volunteers.”

Just about every mech that that seen the sparklings as they were brought in asked to be allowed to adopt them.  Especially the tiny minibot mechlings. 

They were just so adorable.

Starscream felt the distress in his Trine mate’s field.  After the loss of his own clutch, Skywarp had fallen into a deep depression.  He wanted sparklings more than anything.  Finding out about the bornlings, who had unfurled not even five solar cycles before, had hit him hard. 

He had asked to take the tiny bornlings in, but after some consideration it was agreed that once the two were stabilized, they would be placed into Skyfire’s custody.   Thundercracker reminded his mate that they would be siring sparklings on one of the Grounders.  They would have their servos full with their new mate.

Besides, Skyfire had insisted that he be allowed to care for them. 

The Wing Lord did not have to be an empath to know his old friend felt responsible for the death of their carrier, siblings and the other tribe mechs.   After all, it was he that suggested taking the Grounders as mates.  The scientist thought he was doing the right thing.  He never dreamed that the result of his attempt to save his own people would end in so many needless deaths.  

“And what of their carriers?” asked Skywarp.  “How can we take their younglings from them?  They will panic.”

“They likely will at first.  But we have no choice.  According to our research, it is doubtful that they could be sparked while they have nursing young, even with the serum,” Thundercracker sighed.  “They will soon have new younglings to care for.” 

“Do it,” said Starscream.  He still hated it. Primus, taking the sparklings away was cruel.  But there really was no choice.  Their population was already dangerously low.  They needed to start siring as many podlings as they could as soon as possible.

“A more difficult problem will be to find a mech that is willing to take responsibly for the Dock and his symbiots.  The four of them cannot be separated or the symbiots would die in a few solar cycles,” noted Thundercracker. “And that will harm the Dock.  Losing all three could conceivably deactivate him.”

“My Lord,” interrupted Pharma as he stopped before them.  “We have finished scanning the rest of the Grounders.  There will be an issue with the yellow adolescent.  His vocalizer appears to have been destroyed.  My guess would be a mech-animal attack when he was very young.  The damage to the surrounding mesh is too severe for me to repair it.  He will be able to understand our speech once the program is in place but has no way to speak.  I must also report that one of the Grounders is sparked.  Perhaps two lunar cycles along.”

“Which one?” asked Starscream. 

“The black and white mech with the blue visor,” he answered.

“That explains why he submitted so quickly,” noted Megatron.  “Most fought, he tried to run.  According to my lieutenant Cyclonus, when he was surrounded he knelt and allowed himself to be bound.”

“The Grounder will need transfluids if you wish for the podlings to grow and thrive,” said Pharma.  “Although, it is still early enough that I could safely purge them.  He could conceive again within three to five lunar cycles.”

“No!” gasped Skywarp in horror.  “No more sparklings die!” 

Thundercracker put a servo on his mate’s shoulder.  “Skywarp is right.  We have harmed them enough.  Let me talk to a couple of mechs here in the palace.  I can find somebot who would be willing to care for this mech.  A few cycles after they unfurl, the sparklings can be fostered out.  Once the barbarian recovers, the one that is caring for him can sire his own podlings.”

“I will leave that to you, Thundercracker,” Starscream confirmed. “For now, we will stop any further collection of Grounders.”

“What?” demanded Megatron. “You cannot be serious!”

“I will not risk trying to take more because this entire endeavor has been an utter disaster.  We have seven dead breeders and we do not dare let one mech wake because he will try to attack us!  Everything that could go wrong did.  I will not approve of any plan until we know how to deal with them.   If we tried now we would likely end up with the same result.  Dead breeders, dead bornlings.  Primus, these mechs are supposed to be our mates.  Look at them! They tremble with fear at the sight of us!  We need to learn from this group.  There must be a way to bring them in without violence.”

Thundercracker nodded in agreement.  “Besides, the other Grounder tribes are already trekking deeper into the desert to their storm season camp.  A place that we cannot safely follow.  With luck by the time they return we will be able to take them without casualties.  As for these, I suggest we use gas on the captives before attempting to separate them.  I fear they would try to fight if we do not.”

“Alright.  But when you take the sparklings, keep the siblings together.  They have suffered enough,” Starscream said. 

He was still uneasy about the entire operation, but what else could they do except try to mitigate the damage and if possible, eventually win over the survivors. 

“Cyclonus,” Starscream looked to large purple mech who approached with another fifteen member of his palace security that stood patiently awaiting his orders.  “Once the Grounders are unconscious, and had the translation programs uploaded, Thundecracker will let you know where to take them.  Keep the adults bound when they are delivered to their new mates, except the large red and blue mech.  He does not need the translation program.  Have him taken to my berth chamber imediately and remove his bindings.”

One younger Seeker frowned.  “Remove his bindings?  But Sir, those barbarians are dangerous.”

“Do you think I cannot handle a single Grounder, youngling?” asked Megatron darkly, looming over the Seeker. 

“Yes Sir, I mean no Sir, sorry Sir,” he almost fell over himself to get out of the Lord Protector’s presence.

Cyclonus shook his helm, feeling no sympathy for the foolish youngster.  “It will be done, my lord.”  He turned and motioned for his mechs to follow.  Once the Grounders were unconscious he wanted to speak to Thundercracker. 

As one of Megatron’s trusted lieutenants he was being given one of the barbarians as his mate.

The Grounders were all much more desirable than he would have believed, but if given a choice, he wanted the sleek black and white Praxian.

 

Starscream was not concerned that Optimus might try to fight them.  Despite his barbaric upbringing, he did not seem a violent mech. 

And as Megatron pointed out, he could subdue him in the unlikely event that he lashed out.

The Wing Lord was not so sure about the other breeders.  They would have translation programs downloaded into their processors so that they and their mates could communicate, but they had already show themselves to be dangerous and unpredictable.  That is why they would stay bound.  So that their assigned mates could try and reason with them without fear of injury. 

And if reason did not work, they would use the serum.   Perhaps the tribe mechs would be more tractable once sparked?

Megatron walked beside Starscream as he turned away from all those frightened blue optics and hurried from the room.  Neither of them had any desire to watch them being gassed. 

“I sent word ahead to some of my trusted agents once our transport was under way.  They informed me that it was not difficult to identify traders that had been illegally doing business with the Grounders now that we know what they were trading for,” said the Lord Protector as they made their way to their berth chamber.

“Once assured that they would not be punished they were very forthcoming.   Several reported that the Grounders have a tradition that we can use.   Where acquiring mates is concerned, kidnapping is the norm.   These barbarians revere strength above all.  The one that proves himself the stronger mech is the sire, the provider.  It is a symbol of status to be claimed as mate by a powerful mech.   The deaths understandably shocked them, but if they expect to be taken by force…”

“Maybe this can work,” said Starscream.  “Show them we are strong and will care for them and perhaps they will accept us as mates.” He shuttered his optics.  ‘And not monsters.’

 

To be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Starscream and Megatron claim their mate.


	5. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starscream and Megatron ‘court’ Optimus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Artificially induced Heat, Loss of virginity, Double Penetration
> 
> I do not own Transformers etc and any mistakes are my own.

Optimus opened his optics to a very strange scene.  

He readjusted them, but the view did not change.  He gazed upon what appeared to be the ceiling of one of the ancient temples as it must have looked when new. 

The Shaman had always been fascinated by the crumbling ruins of the Temples of Primus in the deep desert, with their beautiful but pale and cracked paintings and carved reliefs covering the walls and ceiling.  When they camped near one, he would spend sometimes spend an entire night cycle in meditation, contemplating the exquisite workmanship.

Here were the same scenes, but bright and new.  No faded colors, no cracks, no jagged sections missing that he had to fill in with his imagination. 

And instead of feeling nothing but a thin sleeping mesh between him and the hard, cold floor, he reclined on an almost obscenely soft, warm surface.   The lights were not flickering torches or jars of glowing chrome beetles.   They were powered lights, built into the intricately carved ceiling.

As he continued to reboot he felt a field brushed his.  Then another. 

The first was excited but restrained. 

The other pulsed with raw lust. 

Optimus pulled his own field in tight.

“Do not be afraid, Optimus,” said a voice he recognized instantly.  The sleek Flyer that had spoken of peace, then all but destroyed his tribe.

“I have no fear of death, Winged One.  I am prepared to return to Primus with my kin,” Optimus announced calmly. 

While he could truthfully say that he was not afraid of termination, he was apprehensive about the massive mech who stood by the Seeker’s side. 

“There is no need to concern yourself about Primus.  You will not be meeting him any time soon,” rumbled the scarred gray mech with spiked shoulders and burning red optics.  He moved closer, looming over Optimus, as if intending to batter him into submission with his field alone.

Optimus was used to keeping his emotions under control, even so he had to force himself to remain still.   His instincts told him to run.  It did not matter where.  He just wanted to be anywhere but here.

The warrior’s desire was palpable, almost burning the Grounder’s plating with the heat of his need.   Optimus had no doubt in his processor what this mech wanted.

There was no lying to himself.  He was afraid of the massive warrior.  This was made worse by the fact that deep in his spark, he knew this dangerous mech.   That handsome, yet frightening visage, those deep red optics.   His processor called up half-forgotten images of the face that had haunted his dreams for his entire existence. 

Smiling, snarling, purring, that field sent a shiver through his frame as he recalled the changes to those visions throughout his life.  

As a sparkling he tried to play with the stranger.  He seemed so lonely.  Both were disappointed that they could not touch, meaning they could not share toys. 

Nor could they speak.  The little world they shared in their dreams was silent.

They would often lay side by side, letting their fields mesh and watching the stars.

Slowly over the stellar cycles as all younglings did their chassis grew and changed.  He had watched with concern as that handsome face plate and chassis began to accumulate many, many scars. 

The most startling change as they reached maturity was the fire that burned in those deep red optics.  He was not sure exactly when the silent companion of his youth began to look at him with desire. 

Optimus could not deny that he was affected also as the slim gray frame filled out into its present impressive proportions.  However, by then he was an acolyte promised to the service of Primus and sworn to chastity.  Optimus was grateful that they could never touch in their dreams. 

The warrior had always been there whenever he slipped into recharge.  And he realized that the sleek Seeker had been there too.  Optimus had not recognized him when he first saw the Flyer at the village.  He was a dark figure standing in the shadows and a much more recent addition to his dreams.

These strange Flyers were the phantoms that had haunted his recharge.  Who were they?  Why had Primus given his tribe to them? 

 

_‘For Primus sake, reign in your field, Megatron.  You are frightening him.’_ Starscream sent to Megatron through his com.  He could see the Grounder was shrinking away from his mate’s desire.  ‘ _Please, allow me handle this,’_

Megatron was not prone to such impulsive behavior or emotional displays.  Somehow this admittedly desirable Grounder seemed to rob him of all reason.  The usually meticulous strategist was losing his objectivity. His desire for Optimus bordered on obsession.

With a glare from the Wing Lord, his Lord Protector reluctantly took a step back, pulling his field close. 

Very carefully the Seeker sat on the berth, being sure not to crowd the confused and apprehensive mech.  “Optimus, there is no way to express how sorry I am,” he began. “What happened at the temple…” 

“Where you killed many of my people,” finished the Grounder.  The pain in his voice cut Starscream to the quick. “Why?  No camps are set up within one hundred klicks of the edge of the desert that touches your territory.  None of us ever initiated contact with any Winged Ones.  It was you and your people that came to us.  What harm had we done that you visit such destruction upon us?”

“I know this is difficult to believe considering what happened, but we hold no malice towards you and your tribe.  The truth is, a virus has decimated our population.  We Flyers are no longer able to carry podlings.  Our population has fallen to a dangerously low level.  Your people are immune to the virus and can be sparked.”  Starscream sighed.  “What I said when I came to you was not a lie.  The intent was to persuade your tribe and others to come to Vos and become our mates.   No force was supposed to be used.  But when that mech raised his sword to me, my bodyguards overreacted.  And then the rest of your warriors attacked.  If I could go back in time, stop those deaths…  Everything happened so fast.”

“What have you done with my tribemates?” asked Optimus.  “What happened to them after we were rendered unconscious?”

“I give you my word as Wing Lord of Vos, they live.  And all are being cared for.”

Admittedly, that was a bit of an assumption.   When he and Megatron went to their chamber, the other Grounders were having the translation patches downloaded, and would then be placed in the custody of their assigned mates.  The only ones he had been updated on before Optimus awoke were the bornlings and the sparked mech. 

The little ones had been placed in a protective chamber that would keep them warm and safe until they were stronger and became used to their new caregiver.  Skyfire had reported that they were awake and very alert.  At first, they chirped constantly.  He presumed they called for their carrier and sire. 

The translator apparently did not work with ‘bornling talk’. 

The good news was according to his last update, the pair had become hungry enough to lose some of their wariness of the shuttle and accept fuel from him.

The sparked mech was given to Nova Storm, who had agreed to care for him in return for being able to eventually sire his own podlings. 

Starscream wanted so much to reach out and touch the dejected red and blue mech, to comfort him.  He did not, for he knew Optimus would not want that from him.  Instead he told him the rest. “We had each mech of breeding age placed in the care of their new mates, as were the two adolescents.  The sparklings will be raised by Vosian families.”

“You took the sparklings from their carriers?  Was losing their sires not enough?”  The horror and disbelief in the Grounder’s voice was palatable.

“We had no choice.  They had to be separated.  We need their carriers to become sparked and that would not be possible while nursing younglings,” explained the Wing Lord defensively.  “They will soon have new sparklings to care for.”  Starscream tried not to cringe.  That sounded horribly callous even to his own audios.

Optimus just looked at the Seeker.  Starscream had to fight not to turn away from the accusing blue orbs. 

_‘I always wanted to believe the best of our winged kin.  That they were not so different from us,’_ the Shaman thought sadly to himself.  _‘How could I have been so wrong?’_  

Starscream was surprised when it was the Grounder that slowly he lowered his optics.  “Will you give me a moment to make my peace with Primus?”

“What?” gasped Starscream.  “Optimus, calm yourself, there is no need be afraid.  I promise that we have no intention of harming you.”

“I am not afraid.”  Optimus met his optics.  “I am a Shaman of the tribes.   By our law and tradition, I belong to Primus until I lay down the mantle.   If I am to be yours I must renounce my vows.”

Starscream raised an orbital ridge.  In his studies with the priests he had heard that there was a time when they took a vow of chastity while serving Primus.  They took the vow as a sign of devotion and so that they could serve Primus without the distractions caused by worldly relationships.

The priests of Vos did not bond or carry while they served, but it was decided in the time of Starscream’s Great Grandsire that there was no need for them to forgo all worldly pleasures, such as interfacing. 

It was considered a non-issue so long as it did not interfere with their duties.

That change did help to increase the number of initiate candidates.

“Just get it over with,” grumbled Megatron, much to his mate’s annoyance.  The Lord Protector was eager to get his spike into that gorgeous mech.

_‘Primus, Megatron.   We want to court Optimus, not antagonize him.’_

The Lord High Protector shrugged at his mate’s annoyance.  Megatron was not in the mood for patience.  He had been waiting for this mech his entire life.

“If that is your tribe’s tradition, we will honor it.  Take your time, Optimus,” said Starscream.  He moved back, giving him room, allowing the tall, red and blue mech to slide off the berth.   The Grounder strode unerringly to the south end of the room, facing his desert home where he knelt and bowed his helm.  

Focusing inward, Optimus shuttered his optics.  _‘Primus below, I have never questioned your wisdom.  I will not presume to do so now.  I had intended to serve as your priest until I found my true mate.  I used to wonder if that would be the gray warrior in my dreams.  When you showed him to me, I hoped perhaps one day when I finally met him in the mesh we might bring our people together in peace.  Instead my tribe is destroyed.  I cannot keep my vow of purity, for my chassis is no longer my own.   As l lay down my title, I lay my fate and my function at your peds, Great Creator.  I can only pray that one day I will understand your purpose.’_

Starscream watched with sadness as the Grounder took a small, rough piece of pumice stone from his subspace.  Optimus used it to remove the symbols of Primus from his shoulders.   A single tear of coolant escaped the Grounder’s tightly shuttered optics as the paint fluttered to the floor as thin white flakes. 

The Wing Lord’s sadness quickly turned to concern as the scraping became so hard that energon began to trickle slowly down Optimus’ arm.

Megatron caught his mate before Starscream could rise from the berth.  “This I understand.  He is leaving that part of his life behind.  He needs the pain.  Do not interfere.”

The Grounder’s broad shoulders were both dripping energon when he finally stood.   Optimus came back to the berth and crawled across it until he was at the head.  He lay his helm down, arms crossed.  He then raised his sleek hips and opened his modesty panel to reveal his still sealed valve.

Engine revving at the show of submission, Megatron moved to cover him.  “Wait,” Starscream said, causing his eager mate to pause.  “Optimus, there is no need to rush.  Surly this is not the way you wish us to interface with you?  You are a virgin.  Breaking your seal will probably be painful in this position.”

“This is the proscribed posture for slaves to submit to their masters.”  The flat, dead voice even cooled Megatron’s lust a little.

Taking a deep invent Starscream ran a servo over Optimus’ stiff back struts.  “I thought you understood.  You are not a slave, Optimus.  Neither are the rest of your tribe.  You are our mate.”

“A mate is taken by one mech, two if they desire a trine,” came the stiff reply.  “They might ambush him or challenge him to honorable combat before the tribes.   To take a mate in this way is to prove a mech’s strength and intelligence.  Demonstrate that they can provide for their mate and sparklings.   Sending warriors to destroy a tribe and claim the survivors as carriers is to make them your slaves.” 

With a look of horrified realization Starscream gasped, “We did everything wrong.” Then he looked down into the sad blue optics. “Optimus, this is not the way it was supposed to be.”

Optimus turned his face plate away.  “By the will of Primus, you have defeated my tribe. I submit to you.  My function is yours, to spare or end as you see fit.  My chassis is yours to use as you will.”  The words, spoken in a low monotone, sounded like a ritual response to Starscream’s audios.

“Fine then,” Megatron growled and pulled a syringe from his subspace.  Before Starscream could protest, he injected Optimus in a transformation seam on his thigh with the heat inducing serum.   He then moved over the other mech’s back, his spike already extended and fully pressurized. 

“You consider yourself a slave, foolish primitive?  Then be one!” Megatron growled.  He rammed his spike into the bowed mech’s valve, breaking the Grounder’s seal and filling him in one swift, brutal stroke.

Starscream tried to pull his mate off Optimus, but quite suddenly found himself sprawled on the floor. 

His Protector’s harsh voice snarled as he pounded into the Grounder, “This is all these barbarians understand.  Brute force and dominance.  He is ours!  If he and his tribe cannot accept being our mates than they can be slaves.  We will get our podlings no matter what these ignorant mechs call themselves.”

Starscream could not look away.  Far from being in pain as he had expected, thanks to the serum, Optimus soon began moving with Megatron.  He whimpered softly as his sleek body ground back against the gray mech. 

The Seeker’s arousal grew despite his misgivings as heat induced cyber-pheromones began to fill the air. 

“He is so tight,” Megatron purred.  Then to his mate’s surprise he took hold of Optimus by his broad shoulders and pulled him up so that he was on his knees with his back plates against the Lord Protector’s chest.  “Share him with me.”

The Wing Lord should have been appalled.    Some call him cold, ruthless.  Both were true, but even as his processor protested that taking an unwilling mech was wrong, the sight of his mate’s spike driving into Optimus’ valve and the overwhelming scent of heat went right to his array.

His spike extended, hard and aching.   “Please, my Wing Lord, let us both take him,” panted Megatron.  His legs were between the Grounder’s so when he spread them wide it forced Optimus to do the same. 

With an almost feral growl Starscream moved in to press against the Grounder’s front and begin working his spike into the tight, wet heat as he hungrily kissed his Lord Protector over a broad red shoulder. 

Optimus moaned like a pleasure bot between them as the pair began to thrust.   Megatron’s sharp dentas grazed over tempting neck cables, licking hungrily at the dribble of energon released.  Starscream nuzzled the other side his neck, then nipped at his dermas.  Optimus’ lip plates parted for him.

His mate purred and licked his way up from the taught neck cables for a kiss of his own.   The former Shaman’s intake readily surrendered to Megatron’s questing glossa.   And when the Lord Protector felt his mate’s glossa lap at the side of his face plate, demanding to be included, he chuckled and opened to him for an awkwardly wonderful three-way kiss. 

“Ours,” Megatron hissed, pounding up into that tight valve.

The feel of those amazing calipers gripping them, and the slide of their spikes against each other soon sent both mechs crashing into overload.

As the three of them lay together, panting, the Wing Lord and his protector snuggled around Optimus. 

Starscream watched his mate’s smile as he drank in the sight of the sated Grounder and found himself feeling a little jealous. 

It took a moment for his Protector to realize that the Seeker was staring at him.

Megatron smiled and reached a servo to cup his cheek.  “You are my Wing Lord, my beloved mate.  I live and die by your command.  But, Optimus has been invading my dreams since I was a sparkling.  And I have wanted this mech since my interface protocols came online.  To finally be able to touch him, to claim him...”

 The Seeker found himself looking down at the lovely Grounder.   Just the sight of him in recharge, so innocent and vulnerable began to awaken his sire protocols.  “I suppose I should not be jealous.  He belongs to us both now.  We have very likely already sparked him.  We are obliged to care for him.”  Starscream reached out and stroked the lovely mech’s finials. “But why did you use the serum?  Optimus had submitted to us.”

“You saw the look in his optics. He had withdrawn into himself, shut us out,” countered Megatron tersely.  “We would have been taking an empty chassis.  I could not allow Optimus to defy me like that.”

Starscream just looked at his mate. He would have to watch his Protector closely to be sure his behavior did not end up hurting Optimus and the podlings. 

Turning his gaze down at Optimus, Megatron’s smile was surprisingly gentle. “Once the serum wears off he will be our obedient carrier.”

The Wing Lord shook his helm.  He doubted it would be that easy for any of his mechs.   

In a few solar cycles when the heat faded all of those that used the serum would still have the same dilemma. 

How to deal with frightened, angry, confused, and by that time, sparked mechs.

But that was a problem for another day. 

Purring softly, Optimus’ optics opened.  Gazing adoringly at Starscream, the Grounder began rubbing his valve over the Seeker’s interface array.

The Wing Lord gladly pushed his more morose thoughts from his processor.  The future with all its uncertainty and angst would have to wait. 

Here and now, Starscream had a beautiful mech begging for his spike. 

 

To be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, a look at how other Grounders are coping.


	6. Coupling pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus has been claimed. Will the other mechs of the tribe accept their fate?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Oral, Dub Con, Dom/Sub, Bondage elements, references to past Character Deaths
> 
> Note: Jazz will seem somewhat out of character here. Just remember, this is not the Autobot TIC and head of Special Ops. This is a scout who is concerned for the survival of his unborn sparklings.
> 
> I do not own Transformers etc. and any mistakes are my own.

Thundercracker would not have chosen the white and red mech that lay in recharge in their berth.  He would have preferred the slim, black and white Praxian.   Not that the unconscious Grounder, who’s helm Skywarp was gently stroking, was unattractive.   He was, in truth, a rather handsome mech.

It was just… door wings.

His mate’s reason for choosing this one was twofold.  First, he was a comparatively large, very sturdy bot, meaning he would be able to carry more podlings.  Second, he was mostly white.  “Genetics, Thunder,” he had said with a lopsided grin as the guards had carefully placed the unconscious, bound mech on their berth. “Most of the podlings will inherit our coloring.”

Shaking his helm Thundercracker sighed.  That was true.  White color nanites were a recessive gene.  “So, you picked this one because there is a good chance he would have a large clutch and the podlings will be blue or purple, depending on which of us sires them.”

“Well, we want them to be beautiful, right?” Skywarp insisted. 

He had to laugh.  “Of course, we do.” 

Thundercracker watched his mate pet the recharging mech.  It was not so bad.  While his chassis was not quite as aesthetically pleasing to the Seeker’s optics as the Praxian, the Grounder had a pleasant face plate, clean lines and strong limbs.  Although, he was somewhat mature.  The medics noted that he was older than either Seeker, but still healthy and fertile.  

According to the readings, the mech on their berth had clutched at least once before.

The Flyers were both a little distracted.   That is why it took a moment for them to realize that a pair of slightly annoyed blue optics were staring up at them.

“Uh… Hi,” said Skywarp brightly when he saw that the mech was awake.  He took his servo from his helm and moved back to give him some space.   After all, he did not want to frighten the poor ignorant barbarian too much. “Do not be afraid.  We will not harm you.”

The Grounder blinked and shook his helm.   

“Oh, right.  You understand our words now.  Its – a – translation - program,” said Thundercracker emphasizing each word. 

The white and red mech blinked again, then glowered at him as he got up on his knees and edged away from the Flyers.  “No need to speak like I have a slow processor.  Just because we do not live in fancy towers does not mean we are stupid.  I had to shut the fragging program down,” he grumbled.  The mech spoke as Optimus did.  In fluent, but oddly accented Vosian.  “I speak your words well enough, Winged One.  That program might be adequate for those that do not know your tongue at all, but the grammar is terrible.”

“Sorry about that.   I fear our knowledge of your language is limited,” admitted the blue Seeker.  “My name is Thundercracker and this is Skywarp.  What is your designation?”

“Ratchet.  I am… I was my tribe’s healer.”  He sat back on his heels and sighed.

The Grounder’s optics took in the opulent room.  He had never seen anything like this before.   Never been in an enclosed space with no discernable opening. 

Large as the room was, he felt claustrophobic.  

Trapped.

After a few moments gawking he pulled his field tight and turned back to his captors.  His shoulders slumped slightly.  “I presume I am your breeder now?”

The Seekers looked at one another.  “Well… I would not put it that ways,” said Thundercracker, a little defensively.

“I am not stupid, Winged One.”  Ratchet refused to use their names.  “Your people slaughtered half our warriors and took the rest of us captive.  This purple one was petting me and looks at me like I am the last energon pastry on the tray.  I am not exactly a hot young piece of aft, yet I am bound and in your berth.  Since I am obviously not a pretty frag toy, that leaves my gestational chamber.”

“We do want podlings,” admitted Skywarp.  Then he clarified their intentions.  “You are our mate now.”

Ratchet almost snapped back that he already had a mate.  One that still lived, unlike some in the tribe.  Although his mate was blocking their bond.  Now he understood why.  His poor Ironhide was likely in a similar situation.  Bound in the berth of some stranger, being told he was to be their mate and carrier.

The older mech nodded his understanding with a sad, resigned look in his optics.  He wanted to fight, but he was helpless.

Although something so horrible was extremely rare in the desert, it did happen.   Tribes made up of pariahs, exiles or other vile raiders slaughtered the warriors of a tribe and enslaved the survivors.  

The Flyers were stronger, or more precisely, they were better armed.  But no matter the reason, the facts remained the same. 

The Flyers had won. 

It was the will of Primus. 

Ratchet had no choice but to submit.  

He found himself silently praying that he would one day see his mate and tribe again. 

Already kneeling, he bowed his helm low.  “By the will of Primus, you have defeated my tribe.  I submit to you.  My function is yours, to spare or end as you see fit.  My chassis is yours to use as you will.” 

The Seekers just looked each other for a moment, then they opened their Trine bond.  _‘Uh, Starscream.  Sorry to bother you but…’_ Thundercracker began. 

_‘Your new mate just recited a ritual of submission,’_ finished the Wing Lord.  _‘Did he bare his valve?’_

_‘No.  He is just sitting there waiting for us to do… Something.’_

At that moment, Starscream and Megatron were curled around their own utterly exhausted Grounder mate.  _‘This debacle is worse than we thought.   Like it or not, we now have slaves.  Use the serum if you cannot become aroused.  The scent of heat will do the trick, believe me.  Unfortunately, whatever our intent, the Grounders interpret it as subjugation.  I am sending out a general com to all the mechs that were given Grounders about this new development.  We can only hope this ritual of submission means they will accept becoming our carriers.   If they are not stressed and are kept well fueled, they should have no trouble carrying podlings.   And, if we are kind, perhaps they will eventually begin to view us as mates instead of as their masters.’_

As the Wing Lord cut the communication Thundercracker felt a sudden pulse of arousal.  It did not belong to him.

Skywarp had his intake on Ratchet’s, kissing the Grounder.   He was not put off by the circumstance at all. 

When the purple Seeker pulled back, Ratchet turned around, still bound, he leaned down and placed his chest on the berth.  He then bared his valve.  With a delighted purr, Skywarp leaned in and began licking at the soft blue bio-lights.

Ratchet was soon dripping lubricant and biting back needy whimpers.  But it had little to do with Skywarp or anything he was currently doing.

Ratchet had been trying to ignore him, just hoping it would be over quickly. 

And then suddenly, he felt an intense wave of arousal. 

Ratchet felt a burst of fear as the bond with Ironhide flared to life.  His mate lost all control and could not keep whatever was happening from reaching him. The fear was followed by horrible, mindless arousal.  

A sob stuck in his throat as he realized what was happening. 

The damned Flyers had given his mate something to put him into heat!  

Obviously Ironhide’s new master or masters did not trust his submission as Ratchet’s did or they did not even give him the chance.  His mate had been forced to submit.  To become a carrier.  

Ironhide loved their sparklings, had cared for them when they were little, fed them from his pouches.  But he was the provider.   He hunted, he protected.   It was he that had ambushed Ratchet in the desert, pinning him down and claiming him.  And the healer had loved every sweet moment of it.  Primus, Ironhide was an amazing lover.

But his mate did not like being spiked all that much.  He let Ratchet take him sometimes but preferred to use his servos or intake to pleasure his mate’s spike rather than let Ratchet use his valve.

Not that he minded.  Ratchet usually preferred to be the one taking a spike anyway.

Now his beloved mate was being sparked against his will.   How many of those that had survived were already drugged and being rutted on by these evil Flyers?   What about Mirage and Windcharger?  Would they be allowed to keep their sparklings, or have them taken away so they could be forced to carry? 

Or worse, what of Jazz?  Ratchet had been walking past the cocky scout and caught the change in his scent less than a lunar cycle before.  He and Prowl had been so happy.  Especially after taking care of the young scouts Bumblebee and Bluestreak, the mates had found themselves wanting sparklings of their own.

Would their new masters allow his sparklings to survive or terminate them in his gestational chamber so that he could carry for them?

And then his thoughts turned to Optimus, his adopted sparkling, his Shaman.  The sweet little mechling he and Hide had raised when his sire and carrier were deactivated in a rockslide.   He loved Optimus as much as the sparklings that came from his own gestational tank. 

They had been so proud when he was chosen as a Shaman of the Tribes. 

Ratchet shuddered.   Where was Optimus now?  The healer had seen the lust in the optics of the giant gray warrior as he gazed at the bound, unconscious Shaman before they were loaded on the transport.  Would his adopted son be given a chance to submit, or would he too be robbed of his processor and taken like a beast?

Whimpering, Ratchet gritted his dentas as the purple Seeker entered him.  He did not want to feel it.  To react to the large spike that brushed clusters of sensors deep inside him.  But he could not help it.  Between the stimulation from the spike and the animalistic arousal bleeding through the bond from his drugged mate, it did not take him long to overload.

He was still keening softly as he felt hot transfluids fill him.  

Ratchet looked back at the purple mech, who pulled out and petted him gently. 

“Your turn, Thunder,” the Flyer panted, turning to the blue Seeker.  When his mate hesitated, he reached out and took his servo. “You must take him now if you want to have a chance of siring some of the podlings.”

At first the healer thought the one called Thundercracker would decline.  He had not seemed nearly as eager to take him as his companion.  Still, his apprehension at what was needed to create the sparklings was not as strong as his desire to have them.

When the Seeker crawled onto the berth, Ratchet was surprised when his wrists were freed, and he was coaxed to lay on his back.  At the shocked look in his optics, the Flyer smiled and stroked his cheek.  “You submitted to us.  No need to keep you bound.”

Ratchet shivered as the blue Seeker moved over him.   He opened his thighs and turned his helm away.  “Look at me,” said the admittedly handsome blue Flyer.   He leaned down to claim the Grounder’s intake. 

Ratchet opened to the kiss as long, skilled fingers slipped into his already wet valve.  “Ahhh…” The healer arched his back struts as Thudercracker teased the sensitive nodes. 

Even when the Grounder eventually cried out in overload, a small part of his processor monitored his gestational chamber.  It was active.  While he was unconscious the Flyers had removed the plug he had set to keep from being sparked until he and Ironhide decided to have another clutch.

They had been waiting for grand-creations. 

It was a blessing that both his surviving creations, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had been training with another tribe when the attack came.  They were supposed to meet at the Storm Season camp and the twins would have return to the tribe as fully trained trackers.

At least they would be safe…  Unless the Flyers intended to conquer more tribes.

By the time Ratchet lay between the recharging Flyers, his CPU had already received the message that his chamber was filled, and his carrier protocols activated.  

It would be a few solar cycles before he would be able to feel the individual podlings he carried, but by the strength of the energy signatures he was reading, he would guess four.

His new masters would be pleased. 

 

Jazz came out of recharge alone and, for the first time in his adult function, afraid. 

He was in an extremely strange place.  In the semi-darkness he noted that the walls of this room were metal.   Although it was larger than just about any tent he had ever been in, the Grounder felt claustrophobic.  He could see no way out.  That was not possible, he told himself, trying to calm his fear.  There must be some sort of entrance or they could not have left him here.

Upon waking Jazz was surprised to discover that his podlings were still in his chamber.  He could detect their fields reaching out, curious and a little confused by his emotional state.

That he could still feel them was an immense relief. 

He tried to run when the Flyers attacked, but the enemy warriors had quickly surrounded him.  Jazz could not fight for fear that his podlings would be harmed.  But when he realized that the evil Flyers intended to take his tribe as slaves, he feared that he had made the wrong decision. 

If they wanted to make the tribe breeders, they would surely terminate the podlings so one of their own could spark him.

Since that did not happen he was confused as to what exactly the Flyers wanted with him.

Jazz was obviously a prisoner.  He was locked up and his servos were bound. Although they were now locked before him instead of behind his back.  This way was not nearly so uncomfortable. 

Also, he had been placed in a large, comfortable berth with a cube of warm energon on the table beside it. 

The scent of it tantalized his olfactory sensors.  Cringing slightly as his tanks growled from hunger he decided to take the chance and drink what was offered for the podlings’ sake. 

He managed to down most of the odd-looking container when he heard his beloved mate’s calm voice came over their bond. _‘Jazz, are you and our podlings safe?’_

_‘Prowler, so glad to feel you,_ ’ Jazz answered.  _‘I’m bound and in the dark, but we’re OK.  At least for now.’_

_‘That does bode well for our podlings’ survival,’_ said his mate.  _‘If they intended to remove them, surely they would have done so while you slept.  Perhaps the Flyers do have some concept of mercy.’_

_‘Mercy?  The fraggers off lined Hot Rod!  Murdered a slagging carrier and his bitlets!’_ Anger and sorrow flooded the bond.

_‘I know.’_ Prowl had been knocked out early in the fight, but Jazz and Ratchet had filled him in as they waited in the cell together while their captors to decided what to do with them.

Jazz shuddered at the touch of sadness in the usually unemotional voice.  _‘When I saw one of the Flyer’s strange weapons shoot through the wall of Ultra Magnus’ tent, I feared the worst.   The Flyer was aiming at Tracks.  Missed him twice before striking him.”  Prowl saw him fall and Mirage had later confirmed that his mate was deactivated.  “Not that it would give Magnus any comfort to know that his mate and the bornlings deaths appear to have been unintentional.’_  

_‘I’m scared, Prowl,’_ Jazz admitted.  He was a scout, a warrior in his own right.  But concern for the little lives in his gestational tank left him cold with fear.   _‘Even if they don’t intend to end them, the bitlets’ will need transfluids soon.  Doubt they’ll let you give them to me.’_

_‘No. They intend to use us as carriers.  I am sure one of the Flyers will be here soon to spark me,’_ noted Prowl _. ‘When they thought me unconscious, I heard them talking about putting all of us into heat.  If they give me the chance, I will try to convince them that it is not necessary so that my processor will be left unimpaired.  Perhaps I can eventually find a way to free us all.” There was a long pause. ‘Jazz, beloved.  One of the Flyers will likely be there soon to claim you as his mate and give transfluids to the podlings.  For their sake you must submit.  Disgusting as the idea of allowing one of them to touch you is, there is no other choice.’_

Prowl was not a mech who was prone to emotional displays, but this one time he allowed his love for his mate and sparklings to come through the bond fully _._  

After a several moments of just holding on to the feelings between them, Prowl pulled back a little. _‘Jazz, I have tried to contact Bluestreak and Bumblebee.  I cannot reach them, can you?’_ asked Prowl.

 As was customary a sister tribe had sent the young mechs to be trained.   Since they were the best scouts in the tribe, Prowl and Jazz were chosen to look after them.  The pair had gladly agreed. They had formed a light bond with the younglings so that they could keep track of them.

Prowl could not keep the sense of helplessness from his field.  He had failed to protect his vulnerable mate and, in his responsibility to the younglings.  _‘I reached out to them but have not felt received a response.’_

_‘Same here.  Felt nothing from them since I woke after the air went bad.  Just hope the younglings are safe,’_ answered Jazz.

Jazz was distracted, concentrating on his connection to his mate, so he was caught unawares by the sudden loud noise.  He stiffened as a sound like a very large cyber-beetle chirping caught his attention.  As light flooded the room from above, the scout turned to see a section of the wall slide to the side allowing a tall, pale blue Flyer to enter.  

The Grounder scooted off the berth and positioned himself with his back to the wall.  He was bound but could still fight to protect his podlings. _‘He’s here.’_ Jazz commed his mate nervously.

_‘Remain calm.  Do whatever he demands,’_ said Prowl.  _‘And know that I love you and our little ones.’_  With that he closed the connection.

“You understand my talk?” asked the Flyer, speaking slowly.  Jazz nodded nervously.  Unlike Prowl, he had never bothered to learn to speak the Flyers’ tongue.  The snooty mechs were nothing but a pain in the aft to him.  Not worth the trouble to trade with. 

If Jazz had his way, the tribe would never have come anywhere near the borders of Vos. 

Too bad he would not be able to tell anyone ‘I told you so.’

The Seeker said a couple of other words, but the program that had been downloaded into his processor did not supply a clear translation.  The gibberish finally ended with, “You no fear.  I, Nova Storm care for you.  What you name?”

“Jazz,” the Grounder said softly.

“Jayass?”

“Jazz,” he repeated, trying not to become annoyed.  _‘Slagging Flyers can’t even talk right.’_

Nova Storm tried a few more times and finally managed to say, “Jazz.”

_‘Small victories…’_ The Grounders thought with a sigh as the two mechs stood and looked at one another for a while, as if not sure what else to say.

Finally, the Seeker pointed to the container that Jazz realized he still held in his servo.  “You fueled.  Is good?”  Jazz nodded again, not trusting his vocalizer.  The energon was a bit sweet for his taste but being full helped both he and the podlings feel calmer.  “You, Jazz, my mate.  You submit, give words.  I provide fuel, protect.   Podlings need transfluids,” said Nova Storm. “I give.”

Jazz sighed, barely keeping from purging the fuel he had just ingested.  As the Flyer watched expectantly, he dropped to his knees, bowed his helm and spoke the words of submission. 

Nova Storm simply nodded and slowly moved closer. 

He removed the restraints and stroked Jazz’s bowed helm. 

A finger tilted up his chin. “You on berth.  I be gentle.”

Jazz trembled harder as he climbed onto the berth and positioned himself on his servos and knee joints. The Grounder might not have a choice but to accept this mech’s spike for the sake of his podlings, but he did not want to look at his violator.

The thought of spreading his leg struts made his plating crawl, but his bitlets needed transfluids and this was the only way to get them.   

The Flyer said nothing, only began stroking his valve.  The touches did begin to cause him to start to become aroused, but Jazz bit back a whimper of fear as the Flyer eventually moved to cover him.

It took a torturously long time for Jazz to finally climax.  

The Flyer seemed to take it as a challenge to make him overload.  

At first, Jazz tried thinking about his beloved mate.  That did not help.  That made him even less aroused.  In the end he just shuttered his optics and let the Seeker do as he willed.  His chassis eventually responded to the stimulation. 

It took every ounce of courage in him not to flinch as the Seeker pulled him close.

After a few minutes Jazz felt the podlings react.  The bitlets had no concept of what was happening to their carrier.   Nor did they have any inkling that the transfluids they just received were not from their sire.  All they knew was that they were getting what they needed.

Jazz tried to console himself by concentrating on the happy feelings radiating from his gestational chamber. 

He did cringe when the Seeker began to run his servo over Jazz’s abdomen, silently laying claim to his podlings.

The scout tried to reach out to Prowl, but his mate had the bond closed tight now, so Jazz did not know what was happening to him. 

As bad as this was, at least he knew that his mate and podlings lived. 

That was more than many of his tribemates had.

 

Prowl lay still, waiting for his new master to claim him.

His servos were bound behind his back.  It was very uncomfortable to lay like that, but it was hardly the first time he had been forced to remain immobile for long periods of time.

When tracking game, or observing rival tribes, he would often have to remain unmoving for long periods of time.

He passed the time running likely scenarios through his processor.  Would the Flyer use kindness, try to woo him, or simply force his compliance?

Unfortunately, he did not have enough data to accurately predict which approach the Flyer would use.

His helm still hurt, but at least he no longer felt like the world was tilting.  He had been knocked unconscious early in the battle.

He and the younglings had been out tending the mech-animals when he heard a commotion. 

Prowl told Bumblebee and Bluestreak to remain with the herd while he raced back to camp.  He reached the perimeter, just in time to see Cliffjumper shot down like a rabid grid-wolf by a dozen Flyers.

The Praxian drew his swords, seeing several of the Flyers had turned their attention to the other hunters.  His blades caught one of the Flyers in the leg with his blade as the Seeker shot at Tracks, when something struck him from behind.

The last clear image in his processor as blackness overcame him was of their Shaman being surrounded by armed Flyers.

After the battle, Prowl awoke strapped to a flat surface.  His aching optics attempted to identify the shadowy forms that hovered near.   He was not surprised that they all had wings.

Even dazed, he could tell instantly that he was in some sort of transport.  His tanks had lurched as the room seemed to spin. 

“This one has a concussion.  Nothing too serious. Just keep him secured until Pharma can get to him,” he heard someone out of his limited line of sight say.

The scout had always been curious about the Flyer’s massive machines.  He had seen them flying overhead during the season of Calm.  According to mechs from other tribes, these mammoth machines transported ore from the mountains in the South near the ruins of Kaon.

The Flyers hired some of the local tribes to do the mining for them.  According to what he was told, the Seekers hated being underground where they could not see the sky.  Even then, they abandoned the mines and returned to Vos before the Storms came.  Neither their machines, nor the Flyers themselves could survive the raging winds and acid rain of the Strom Season.

Prowl stiffened as he heard the approach of very heavy peds approaching the berth where he lay. 

The mech that entered the room was tall, with deep purple plating.  Larger than average for a Seeker, if he was not mistaken.  At least he seemed so, judging by the traders from Vos and the Flyer Tribe mechs he had met at the Storm Season camp. 

The Praxian sat up very slowly, keeping his optics on the Flyer.  He caught sight of a syringe in one of the mech’s servos.  Since he was not sure just how anxious the other mech was to use it, Prowl decided to take a chance.

“I will not fight.  There is no need to use that,” he said, inclining his helm to indicate the needle.

 “I had heard some of you spoke Vosian,” noted the Flyer.  “My compliments to your teacher.”

Prowl took the words in the spirit they were intended, even as he felt a tug of sadness in his spark thinking about the loss of Alpha Trion. 

The ancient mech had been a source of great wisdom, keeper of their history, and the last Grounder to survive the Fall of Iacon. 

And that venerable elder had been murdered as casually as one would swat a cyber-nat.

He shuttered his optics for a moment, then looked up at his captor.  “You intend to spark me?” asked Prowl.

“Yes.  I was told that there is a ritual involved.  You are to give me your submission.”

The Praxian nodded.  He had hoped that he might not be forced to say the words.  This would complicate things if a chance at escape arose.  Breaking one’s word was an affront to Primus.  Unfortunately, the Flyers were aware of the ritual of submission and intended to use it against them.

However, Prowl was not going to give up on finding a way to free his tribe.  Primus was strict, and he would not dishonor his tribe, but the Praxian was sure that given enough time he could find a loophole.

Having no choice but to submit, for now, he bowed his helm.  “By the will of Primus, you have defeated my tribe. I submit to you.  My function is yours, to spare or end as you see fit.  My chassis is yours to use as you will.”

Cyclonus nodded seeming very smug, accepting Prowl’s submission and moved to loom over his new mate.  As surprisingly lovely as some of the other Grounders turned out to be, it was the sleek, sexy Praxian that had captured his attention.

He was lucky that Skywarp wanted a large, mostly white mech as their new breeder.  Starscream’s senior trine mate obviously wanted the Praxian.  It was only grudgingly that Thundercracker relinquished his claim on those sweet door wings.

The Flyer looked down at the handsome mech.  “I am Cyclonus.  What is your designation?”

“Prowl.” Looking up at him, the Grounder asked, “Will you remove the bindings?”

Cyclonus thought about it.  “Not just yet.” The sight of that beautiful mech in chains was very arousing.  “Get on the berth,” he ordered. 

Prowl knew some mechs enjoyed such games.  He did not.  The scout and his mate were equals. 

Their courtship had been very unusual.  Neither could manage to catch the other, no matter how well made their plans.  In the end they did something very different than most young mechs.

They joined together by mutual consent. 

Neither would be the provider or dominant mech.  When he and Jazz decided to try and create, they left the choice of which would carry to Primus.  It just so happened that Jazz is the one that became sparked.

With a last quick pulse of love to his mate, Prowl stood and carefully climbed onto the berth.  Cyclonus lay on his back and coaxed the Grounder to straddle his hips.  “Open,” said the Flyer.

Outwardly he might appear unemotional, inwardly, Prowl was sick at spark.  He had not thought it would not affect him at all.  That he could go through the motions and take the Flyer’s spike without feeling anything emotionally.   He was wrong.  Even as he told himself he was not betraying Jazz, his processor rebelled at the idea of interfacing with this stranger.

  _‘I can do this,’_ he told himself.  _‘Cyclonus will drug me if I do not.  This means nothing.  He will only touch my chassis.’_

The Praxian stiffened as a finger traced his dry valve.  He feared Cyclonus might consider this an insult and become angry.  Fortunately, the Flyer was prepared for such a possibility.  He produced a jar of lubricant from his subspace and scooped out a healthy amount and began stroking his valve gently.

Much as his mate had, Prowl did his best to clear his processor and concentrate on the sensations of the slick fingers that teased his anterior node. 

He was grateful that the Flyer did not seem insulted that his optics were tightly shuttered.  

Prowl moaned as his master’s spike parted the now swollen lips of his valve.   Large servos took hold of his hips to guide the Grounder’s movements.  Once Cyclonus was fully sheathed, he urged the Grounder to ride him.

Keeping as detached as possible, Prowl’s analytical processor was gathering data on the Flyer.  Cataloging characteristics, such as his desire to be completely in control. 

Prowl was already formulating a plan.   He would find a way to free his mate and his tribe.

He could not allow himself to accept any other outcome.

 

To be continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: More of the tribe must come to terms with their captivity.


	7. Coupling pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Grounders meet their masters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Coercion, Rape, Non-Con, Artificially Induced Heat
> 
>  
> 
> I do not own Transformers etc. and any mistakes are my own

Bumblebee curled up as tightly as he could on the huge soft berth. 

The small yellow mech was terrified. 

At least when they were in the cage he had been with Prowl, Jazz and Bluestreak.  He could lean on his friends for comfort. 

Now he was alone.

What did these horrible Flyers want with them?

The young mech froze when he heard a strange noise.  He forced himself to relax and shutter his optics, pretending to be in recharge.  The sound, like something moving in the wall, was followed by footsteps coming nearer.

“You awake,” the Flyer said as he approached the raised berth.  Somehow Bumblebee understood the strange words.  Some of them, at least. 

“No hurt,” his captor assured.  “I Ramjet.  I care for you.  Bring fuel.”  The Seeker with the odd, conical helm loomed over him.  His field was calm, but with a slightly odd edge.  Tense.   The mech used more words, but Bumblebee could not understand most of them. 

His captor held out an odd looking round container. “You not speak, I know.  Nod to promise, you no fight.  Obey.  Do this, I give fuel.”

The yellow mech’s tanks growled at the thought of fuel.  It had been over a day cycle since he ingested anything.  Seeing no alternative, Bee nodded and beeped.  

 His servos were still bound behind him and this Flyer was almost twice his size.  There was no way he could fight and win.  Besides, he knew the stories.  Though it surprised him that the Flyers would do this.  They were the ones that thought they were better than everyone else.  Why would they behave so dishonorably?

At least, so far, this Flyer did not seem particularly cruel.  He did not yell, and he patiently held the container, tipping it up so that Bumblebee could drink.  Ramjet watched him consume the fuel, being careful not to give him too much at once.  It had a very sweet flavor, like nothing the youngling had ever tasted before.  And it did feel good to be full.  He found himself relaxing a little.

“You need designation,” said Ramjet once Bumblebee finished the energon. 

Bumblebee tried to sound out his name for the Seeker as best he could with his damaged vocalizer.  To his credit the other mech did seem to try and listen. 

“Bee-Beep?” The red colored Flyer tried it once more, this time not sounding quite so much like a gallium-goat kid bleating.  The young mech almost laughed at the thought.  After a few more attempts, all he could manage was to get the Seeker to call him ‘Beep’. 

Under the circumstances, he could live with that.

The Vosian placed the empty container on a small table that sat beside a chair near the berth.  Bumblebee pulled back when the big Seeker reached for him.  The grasping servo stopped short, sensing his fear.  “Me take off…” He said something more, but it was gibberish to Bumblebee.  But he thought he got the gist of it.  His captor was going to free his servos. 

The young mech slowly turned and held out his bound wrists. 

He flinched when his captor touched his arm strut.  But felt relief when the cold metal no longer touched his mesh. 

Bee turned back, rubbing his sore wrists and arm struts.  Nervously he look up at his master.  The mech would want something from him for this kindness.  The Grounder trembled as a large servo petted his helm.  He had heard the stories of tribes who had been enslaved as breeders.  The young mech’s plating rattled, as his trembling increased.  He had never even kissed another mech, and now he was going to be violated.

There was no way he could fight.  Better to just get it over with.

He slowly turned away from the Flyer and dropped to his knees, helm down.  The yellow mech was trying to force himself to relax and open his interface panel when the Seeker knelt beside him.  “No, no.  You youngling.  No frag yet.”

The terrified Grounder blinked at his master.  He almost protested that he was not a youngling.  But as the other mech lifted him back to his peds, he remained quiet.  His master knew he was not of age and was not going to force him to interface.  

He would let the Seeker call him youngling if it meant that he would not be taken.

Although that single word filled him with dread.

Yet.

 

Mirage did not try to stem the tears.  Nor did not care if the evil Winged Ones saw him cry.  First, they murdered his mate, Tracks, then they took away their bitlets.

What kind of monsters would do such a thing?

The little ones had been with him before.  Brawn, Wildrider, Hoist and Huffer had been nuzzling him as he tried to comfort them. The survivors of the tribe had been in a cramped, foul smelling cell, but at least they were together. 

Then the very air around them became toxic and they lost consciousness.  When he awoke, he was alone on a berth.  The Grounder had no doubt that they intended. 

They took everything from him and now they expected Mirage to just spread his leg struts like some pathetic buy mech!

Mirage had no idea how long he had been there when light filled his vision.  He blinked, wondering where it came from.  But not for long.  The beautiful Grounder growled when one of the evil Flyers approached the soft berth where he lay. 

Most of what he said sounded like the whining of a wounded zap-horse, but a few words came through.   “I Thrust.  I no hurt pretty mech,” said the blue Winged One with the conical helm.  “You submit.  I am mate now.”

Rage flared as Mirage rolled off the berth, kicking the evil Flyer in the face plate.  “MATE DEAD!” he shrieked.  As the other mech staggered and his peds hit the ground, the Grounder lowered his helm and rammed the startled Seeker in the abdominal plates. 

Thrust managed to roll up to his peds and scrambled away from the raging carrier.  The blue mech growled low, baring his dentas and came at him again.  The Seeker managed to dodge the attack. 

Thrust was shocked.  He had been told the primitives wanted to be dominated.  That his new mate would bare himself and submit.

This one had gone insane!

“Stop!  I master, you mate!” gasped Thrust, trying to keep from being bitten.  The damned Grounder was snapping at him like a rabid cyber-hound! 

“Mate killer!” screamed Mirage, lunging at the Seeker again.  Unfortunately, still being bound, he could not catch himself as his foe swept his legs and sent him crashing face plate first to the floor.  Before he could roll to his peds, the Flyer landed on top of him. 

Thrust used his superior weight to hold the thrashing mech down.  ‘Stop!  No struggle!” he gasped.  The Grounder was strong for his size, and almost managed to throw him off.  Almost. “No choice!” mumbled the Flyer and suddenly Mirage felt pain in a transformation seam in his arm. 

“Mate… kiiilllll…” he slurred as blackness claimed his processor.

The Grounder slowly went limp beneath him.

 

Sighing, Thrust released the panting Barbarian.  The pretty Grounder just lay still for a moment.  Then very slowly he rose to his knees.  The blue optics, though still wet with tears, were no longer filled with anger and hate. 

At first, they were blank, almost lifeless.  But they quickly softened.  The lovely white and blue mech looked up at the Seeker and purred.  Thrust held out a tentative servo.   Mirage shuffled closer on his knees and nuzzled it.

“Good mate,” said Thurst, carefully helping the primitive to his peds.  He petted the now compliant mech as he removed the restraints.  The Grounder almost knocked him over as he leapt onto him. 

But this time there was no rage. 

This time, the pulsing field held only need.

Thrust moaned as the other’s interface panel opened and a hot, wet valve was pressed against his own quickly warming plating.  He had not been aroused during their fight, but the tantalizing scent of cyber-pheromones was quickly chasing away any lingering apprehension.

The Seeker took a few steps back until he was beside the berth.  He barely managed to sit down on it. The now eager Grounder wanted him and would not be denied.  His spike quickly exited his panel while the sexy mech purred and impaled himself. 

They both moaned as the barbarian began to ride his spike.      

By the time the barely conscious Grounder slumped over Thrust he was already sparked. 

 

Ion Storm kept the syringe ready but out of sight as he cautiously approached his new mate.  The mech was oddly colored for a barbarian.  At least, he seemed so for the members of this tribe, having a purple torso and yellow plating on his arms and legs.  His optics were blue as were all the mechs taken in the desert. 

The Seeker was surprised when the mech on the berth smiled at him as he approached.  He seemed strangely cheerful.  “Well, hello there handsome.  It’s about time someone came to see me.”

“Uh, hello.  I was under the impression the patch only gave your people a basic understanding of our tongue?”

“Oh, that.  I already deleted it.  As a trader who has often worked with Seekers I already have a perfect understanding of your very lovely language.  To be honest, that program was very shoddy workmanship.  I can give you access to a much better one, for a small fee.” The mech flashed him a slightly too wide smile.  “My name is Swindle.  And you are?”

“Ion Storm,” said the blue Flyer.  “I am your mate.”

“Whoa there, friend,” Swindle shook his helm.  “I admit you are a rather handsome fellow, and I would not mind a friendly roll in the furs, but I am not mate material.  I’ve managed to keep from being captured and taken as mate by any number of very nice hunters that wanted to spark me up, but I’m a free spirit.  Not ready to be tied down.  Besides, I have, shall we say, taken precautions.”

“Our medics removed the plug,” said Ion Storm.  “My tribe defeated yours.  You belong to me now.”

“Oh, look, let’s not be too hasty,” said Swindle.  “I know of the tradition you mean.  Barbaric custom, that.  Forcing member of a defeated tribe to carry for you.  But that does not apply to me.  After all, I am not Iaconian.   As I a free trader from the north.  I am a Polyhexian.  We are a completely different tribe.  So why don’t you just drop me off back near that old temple.  I have some caches of energon in the area, so I can easily get to a tribal meeting place…”

“No one is taking you anywhere.  You are my mate,” said Ion Storm, looming over the smaller mech. “And you are going to carry my podlings.”

“Uh… Can’t we talk this over?” asked the Grounder.  “I can make it worth your while…” Swindle’s voice trailed off at the glower from the Flyer.  He was quickly coming to the conclusion that he might not be able to bluff his way out of this. 

“You can submit, or I can give you an injection that will put you into heat.  Either way, you are going to carry,” said Ion Storm.  He was not displeased that his mate could understand him, but he was quickly losing patience with his obstinances. 

“Please, my friend, we are both reasonable mechs.  Let us discuss this like civilized…”

He yelped as the servo struck his cheek.  He was really getting tired of this. “Shut up and bare your valve.”

Swindle blinked in shock.  “Please, you cannot do this.”

 The Seeker produced a syringe from his sub space.  “I am not telling you again.  Submit or I will take you by force.”

“OK, OK…” The Grounder quickly turned and bared his valve.  “No needles.  I’ll do it.”

“Much better,” Ion Storm petted him. “Do what you are told, Swindle and we will get along fine.”

Nodding, the Grounder tried to relax as fingers began to stroke his valve.  He could do this.  It was hardly the first time he had torqued off a mech and had to offer his chassis to placate them.  The possibility of being sparked was unpleasant, but he would find a way to deal with it.

Eventually he would escape this dreadful place.  And he would spread the word among the tribes, warn them about the evil Flyers' intentions.

They would consider him a hero.

And he would not even be breaking any oaths or lose his honor to do it.  After all, he had not actually given the pushy Flyer the words of submission. 

One way or another, the bastards were going to pay.

 

 

To be continued. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little shorter than I intended. I am still working on the parts with Bluestreak and several of the others. Those will be in the next chapter. It may not be posted on Saturday. I am working more hours the next couple of weeks, so we will see.
> 
> Next chapter, yet more Grounders meet their masters.


	8. Coupling pt 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of the Tribe meet their mates and a peek at the youngest sparklings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Coercion, Manipulation, Dub-Con, Non-Con, Rape, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts
> 
> I do not own the Transformers etc. and any mistakes are my own.

Acid Storm sat on the edge of the berth waiting somewhat impatiently for his new mate to wake.  The sturdy red mech lay on his side, arms bound behind his back. 

His three symbiots were locked up where they could not cause any mischief.  

He needed to be there to assure him that his diminutive brothers were not in danger.

If he cooperated. 

The Seeker knew that he was going to have to keep the Grounders on a tight leash.   Literally if they gave him any trouble.  The last thing anyone wanted was to have the symbiots running around loose, causing havoc.  Besides, keeping the cassettes from their host would ensure that the barbarian behaved.

There was a dampening field on the cage where they were being held in.  This would keep the Dock from feeling little more than the fact that the symbiots lived.

And they were afraid.

Eventually the bright blue optics blinked at him.  First shaking his helm, then pulling on the restraints.  Once he rebooted completely, a look of horror came over the Ground’s face plate.  “Little brothers?” he gasped.  “Not here?  Alive…  barely feel them.  Hurt?”

“Safe.  Blaster, that is your designation?” asked the Seeker.  The guards that dropped him off said that is what the symbiots had called their Dock.

The Grounder nodded.  “Where brothers?”

“Later.  I am Acid Storm.  You are my mate now. You will submit to me.  Say the words of submission and the little ones will stay safe.”

The Dock gasp, staring up at the smug mech as his tanks lurched with cold fear.  As confusing as some of the words might be, the Flyer’s meaning was crystal clear.  His brothers were hostages. 

They would be harmed if he did not lay down for the Seeker.

“You will obey me.  Do this and they will be safe,” reiterated the Seeker.  “We are stronger the tribe.  All Grounders belong to us now.”

Blaster shivered.  He was barely an adult.  Taking or being taken as a mate was the last thing on his processor. 

He had been with a few mechs before.  When his interface protocols came online, he was encouraged to ask an older mech, or mated pair to teach him, once Ratchet made sure he would not carry.

Prowl and Jazz were happy to initiate him.  Not only were the pair gentle with him, but they agreed that Rewind, Eject and Ramhorn were welcome to join them.  (Some of the tribe balked at the idea of including his brothers.) They had been so wonderfully caring for their pleasure. 

That night cycle gave them many happy memories. 

The Dock knew that he had no choice but to submit.  His one consolation was that he would not lose his seal to this evil Flyer.

Blaster saw that the Seeker was becoming impatient. 

If giving his chassis and his submission to the Seeker was what it took to protect his vulnerable brothers, then it was a sacrifice Blaster was willing to make.

He dropped slowly to his knee joints and recited the ritual.  He then turned and offered the Flyer his valve.   That seemed to placate his captor, although he was not surprised that the Seeker did not release his bonds. 

He tried to relax while the Flyer prepared him.

Jazz and Prowl were much better lovers.  Acid Storm took what he wanted without real care. 

The Grounder was surprised the selfish mech eventually brought him to overload.  It seemed more a byproduct of what was happening to him than any conscious intent by the mech called Acid Storm. 

It did not take long for his captor to fall into recharge once he was sated.  He ordered the Grounder to lay beside him in the berth and told him not to get up as he locked around Blaster’s waist. 

While his new master was in recharge, Blaster reached out, trying to concentrate on his strained connection to Rewind, Eject and Ramhorn.

They reached back, just at the edge of his perception, sending their love. 

For the sake of his family, he would endure whatever the evil Flyer did to him.

And there was one thing that kept his spark from despair. 

The Flyer obviously did not think of his brothers as separate beings.  With the Dock’s submission Acid Storm assumed that they were also bound. 

Blaster was a slave now, but his cassettes had given no words to their captor. 

There were other Docks among the tribes.  He would find a way to get them out of the Flyers’ city and back to the desert.  He swore by Primus that one day they would be free.

 

Bitstream frowned in irritation. 

Where was his new mate?  He had been waiting almost an entire day cycle for the lovely little red mech to come out of recharge. 

The Seeker thought he heard movement, so he came to check on the minibot, but his little mate seemed to have disappeared.  This was ridiculous.  He could not have escaped.  There was no way the diminutive primitive, with his servos bound behind his back, could possibly have gotten out of this room.

The Seeker looked down at the berth and snorted.  He was being an idiot.  Since the Grounder could not open the door, there was only one place he could be.

Kneeling, Bitstream leaned down until he was looking under the berth. 

As expected, the adorable Grounder was beneath it, curled up as small as he could make himself and trembling violently.  Large, obviously moist blue optics stared at him like a dioptas-deer in the headlights. 

“Come out of there, Little One.  You must be hungry.” He knew the Grounder could not understand everything he said, but he did not realize just how much of a jumble his words were to the frightened mech. Fortunately, the minibot managed to pick out what was relevant.

The Seeker saw the comprehension in the blue optics.   Bitstream leaned in, edging closer, but the little mech wriggled away even further, his trembling voice said, “Where sparklings?”

“Safe,” assured the Seeker.  “The sparklings are safe.  Cared for.”

“Not safe.  Too young.  Need me,” the Grounder pleaded.

“No,” the Bitstream informed him with an air of finality. “They are fine.  You are my mate now.”

When he finally seemed to understand what was said, the Grounder was almost hyperventilating. “Cliffjumper mate!  Bad Winged Ones kill mate!”

The purple Seeker sat back.   No wonder the mech was so upset.  He knew about the sparklings, but they had not told him the Grounder’s mate was killed in the battle.  Bitstream needed to be less aggressive, more understanding. The little mech was grieving.

“I am sorry about your mate,” he said softly.  “We did not intend to hurt anyone.”

“Kill mate, kill friends, take sparklings.  Hurt all,” said the Grounder bitterly.

Bitstream sighed in frustration.  It was not his fault there had been complications collecting the barbarians.  Why was the little mech being so obstinate?

He shuttered his optics and took a deep invent.  Bitstream had to keep his temper.  Yelling at the poor primitive would not help.  The minibot did have reason to be upset, but he needed to convince the Grounder that he was trying make things right.  “Yes, we did hurt your people, so it is our responsibility to take care of you.  You need a mate.”

The minibot gave him a confused look.  Did the mech not understand him?  True, the translation program was said to be rather limited, so the primitives could only understand some of what was said to them.  Bitstream had consciously tried to keep things simple. Was he still talking over the poor little bot’s helm?

When the Grounder finally spoke, his words did touch the Flyer. “Please, please, sparklings need me.”

“The sparklings are safe,” he assured.  “They have new caregivers.   I will look after you.  We will make more sparklings.”

“No!  You not mate!”

Bitstream was not trying to be cruel or unreasonable, but he was seriously considering using the serum.  He was about to take it from his subspace when suddenly he thought back to the message the Wing Lord had sent about the Grounders. 

“You defy Primus?”

The little Grounder’s optics widened in surprise at his words.  He shook his helm nervously.  “No!  Not defy Great Creator!”

“You do,” countered Bitstream.  “The Creator gave your tribe to us.   You are mine now.”

The red helm shook, but the Seeker could see uncertainty behind the wide optics. 

“What is your name?” Bitstream asked, deliberately softening his tone.  He needed to be calm, gentle.  The Grounder was upset.  Anger would only frighten the little mech more.

After a long few moments the red mech said, “Windcharger.”

“Winchar?”  He tried to say the word.  The sounds were very odd, guttural. The primitive said it a few more times, helping him sound it out. “Windcharger.” He had to roll his glossa at the end, but eventually managed to get close enough that the red mech nodded. 

Seeing that the Grounder seemed a little more relaxed, he continued.  “I am Bitstream.”

“Bitstream,” the red mech had no trouble pronouncing his designation.  Their glossas were obviously quite limber.  Which made him even more anxious to get the cute little savage in his berth.

“Come out, Windcharger,” he said gently.  “You need fuel.”

Windcharger shook his helm and tried to scoot even further away, but he had run out of room.

Optics misting, the minibot received the translation of the next words the big mech spoke.   Most of the Flyer’s speech was so much noise.  It came out as, ‘No be willful.  Sparklings protected.  Loved.  You mine now.  I care for you.  Primus says so.”

Windcharger shuttered his optics.  He wished he could speak to Optimus.  Maybe the Flyer spoke the truth?  They had defeated the tribe.  The terrifying giant gray warrior had even subdued the most powerful hunter of the Iaconian tribe, Ultra Magnus.  Did that really mean that the Great Creator intend for them to belong to the Winged mechs? 

By refusing the Flyer, was he defying Primus?

“Come, you need fuel,” the Flyer showed him a container, then he took a small drink from it.  “It tastes very good.”

The little helm shook nervously. 

“Windcharger, must obey.  Do not defy Primus.”

Windcharger shivered.  He did not want to defy the Great Creator.  He wanted to be with Cliffjumper when he went to Well.  

The minibot had been so distraught that he had considered trying to end his function when he woke alone.  His mate was dead, his sparklings taken.  But he knew that his sparklings lived.  He had to sure they were truly safe.  “I be your mate, can see sparklings?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” answered Bitstream.  That would be easy enough.  He should be able to get the sparklings’ new caregivers, Air Raid and Silverbolt to send him some pictures. 

The Seeker would probably be able to let Windcharger have some contact with the bitlets eventually.  But not until the little ones had accepted their new caregivers.

Bitstream smiled as the little mech moved slowly towards him.  He wanted the minibot to go faster, but with his arms bound he could not crawl, just inch his way over.  Bitstream remained still, not wanting to frighten his mate.  When the lithe red chassis emerged from beneath the berth, the Flyer held out the fuel, Windcharger very shyly looked up at him. 

He sat back on his heels and allowed himself to be fed.

Smiling, Bitstream used a finger to wipe off a little energon that spilled down Windcharger’s chin.  He touched the little mech’s full lip plates.  Understanding what he wanted, the Grounder parted his dermas, letting Bitstream slide the finger into his intake.  The pretty blue optics shuttered as he moved the finger in and out suggestively.

Now that he could really see the Grounder, Bitstream noted just how small his new mate was.  If Windcharger were standing, his helm would reach just above the Vosian’s waist. 

However, before he had accepted the mech as his breeder Bitstream had spoken to the medics to be sure that the minibot could safely take his spike and carry for him.  They assured him that there was no problem with this.  It was likely that Windcharger could carry only one podling at a time because of the size difference, but that was something the Seeker could live with. 

When Windcharger finished the fuel Bitstream reached down to touch his cheek strut.  “Come, my pretty mate, we will make a new sparkling.”

The big sad optics widened.  Windcharger started to pull away from his servo.

“You defy Primus?” asked Bitstream. 

The Grounder shook his cute little helm.

Bitstream patted his thigh.  “Come here.  Be a good mate.”

Windcharger whimpered, but slowly edged closer.  The Seeker stayed still, waiting for his little mate.  Once he moved close enough, Bitstream touched him.  His large servos gently stroked his helm.

When his reluctant mate did not pull away the Seeker took hold of his slim waist and lifted him onto his lap. 

Windcharge went still.  Not struggling but still afraid.  Bitstream realized that his little mate was crying. 

He felt the slim frame shake, as he removed the restraints.  “Shh…  Easy, pretty one.  I will make you feel good.”  Gently, he began to kiss and caress the Grounder.  Eventually he coaxed the timid mech to respond, even if he felt a little annoyed that those lovely blue optics remained tightly shuttered the entire time. 

It took even more coaxing, but eventually, the pretty mech’s interface panel slide aside.  Gently he let his fingers explore the soft, tempting mesh.  And soon felt it become slick with lubricant.

Bitstream smiled as the little mech started to press down on his fingers as he prepared his nervous mate.  It did not take very long for Windcharger to become aroused enough to take his spike. 

There were still traces of tears on the minibot’s cheek struts when he entered that wonderfully tight valve.  Windcharger sobbed and arched his back once the Flyer was fully inside him. 

The Seeker kissed the tears away as he pulled the warm little chassis to him.  With luck his mate would soon be sparked. 

Surely once Windcharger knew he would have another bitlet he would be happy.

 

 

They were chirping even louder this time.

Skyfire sighed and turned down his audio sensors, again.

The two tiny podlings were restless.  They wanted their creators.

The frail little sparklings alternated between sleeping fitfully and curling up together in the center of the small, portable incubator and chirping loudly.

At first, they shrieked in terror if he came near.   Or Primus forbid, attempted to touch them.  Now although they were still very vocal, they did accept his energon.

The Shuttle had ended up having to let Pharma modify two of his feeding tubes.  His nubs were much too large for such tiny mouths and the long flexible tubes themselves could have crushed the miniscule mechlings.

When they finally become hungry enough to accept energon from him, the Flyer had been ecstatic.  He had truly begun to fear the bitlets would have to be fed intravenously to keep them alive. 

Now they were a little less weary of him.  They still would not allow him to pick them up and hold them, which the Flyer longed to do.  Especially since Pharma had told him that newborn podlings needed to be close to a spark.  That was why the Grounders kept them in slings as the pretty flame colored mech had done.

But the two little bitlets still shrieked if he tried to pick them up.  But at least they now allowed him to very gently touch them with a single finger.

He felt so happy when the tiny blue and white podling let him rub his abdominal plate.

The slightly larger of the mechlings had similar coloring to his deactivated carrier, although he did not sport the same distinctive flame markings.  That one preferred to be stroked on his crest.  He would allow a few delicate touches, and then beep and pull away.

Both were still confused.  They wanted their creators and their siblings.  When they recharged, which was often since they were newly emerged, their tiny servos would flail sometimes.  Obviously their little servos were searching for something that was no longer there.  Skyfire’s spark ached every time they sobbed when they did not find what they so desperately wanted.  He winced at the little high-pitched whimpers as they clutched one another more tightly.

Soon the little ones tired of calling for their creators and settled once again into fitful recharge. 

Leaning close to the thick, transparent plexiglass, Skyfire found himself softly singing an old lullaby.  He did not even really think about the words.  It was a song that his carrier used to sing when he was a sparkling.

He did not really expect any kind of reaction from the mechlings.  He was trying to sooth his own mind.  So, he was surprised when the diminutive forms wriggled closer to the side of the incubator where he was.  They still cuddled together, but now they were pressed against the glass, feeling the vibrations from his voice.

Still singing, Skyfire carefully opened the top and leaned closer.   The podlings were relaxed.  For the first time since they had been put in his care, they did not squirm or whimper.

Very gently he brushed a finger over the little blue and white mechling.   He purred and allowed himself to be stroked several times before turning away and snuggling with his brother again.

Skyfire sighed and let his servos fall to his sides.  He would go as slow as the little ones needed.  It was difficult, but he could feel that they were warming to him.  Soon they would allow him to hold them close to his spark.

“I am sorry, little ones.  I cannot give you back your creators or siblings,” he said softly.  “I took them from you and there is no way that I can replace them.  But I will keep you safe.  I will love and protect you both as if you were my own.”

The Shuttle continued to sing the ancient lullaby long into the night cycle.

 

To be continued.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Find out what happened to the last of the surviving adult Grounder, Bluestreak and Mirage’s sparklings.


	9. Coupling pt 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more look at the first night of captivity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence, Dub Con
> 
> I do not own Transformers, Etc. and any mistakes are my own.

Cyclonus growled.  The insistent pinging from his com very rudely interrupted his very satisfying night with his new very limber mate.  _‘ Report,’_ he snapped, not even trying to hide his displeasure.  

_‘Hotlink and Nacelle’s new mate has gone insane,’_ said Black Out, one of his top Enforcers.  _‘Even after they gave him the serum the primitive bit Nacelle on the shoulder.  Tore him up pretty badly.  Hotlink says he used a chair to beat the mech until he let go.  They ran for it and locked him in their berth room.’_

Sighing, Cyclonus shook his helm.  _‘Has the Grounder been restrained?’_

There was a pause.  _‘Not yet, sir.  When we called Pharma, he insisted that we wait.  He believes that by now the Grounder will be completely submerged in the heat.  He will likely imprint on the first mech he sees as his mate, and Hotlink and Nacelle want nothing to do with him.  We need to decide who gets custody of him before we open the door.’_

_‘OK.  I will be there as soon as I can.’_

Cyclonus turned as his mate stirred beside him. “Something has happened,” noted the Grounder.

“Why do you say that?”

“Your field is bleeding annoyance and you are about to leave your berth in the middle of the first night cycle with a new mate that you want to interface with as often as possible,” noted Prowl.   He resisted the urge to shift his sore hips. His new master had already taken him six times. “You would not be leaving unless it was an emergency.”

“Had you been born a Flyer, Prowl, you would have made a very formidable enforcer,” acknowledged Cyclonus.  “One of your people attacked his new mates.”

“Dose he still live?” asked the Praxian.

“Yes, although he is apparently injured and been put into heat.  They have him locked up because it is  likely he will imprint on the first mech he sees.”

Prowl looked pensive.  “May I accompany you?”

This caused Cyclonus to raise an orbital ridge.  “There is no need.”

“Whichever of my tribe mates this is, he will recognize me as family.”

The Flyer shook his helm.  “As I said, he has been put into heat.  We cannot have him imprint on you as a sire.”

 “I my gestational chamber is active, he will not imprint on me,” countered Prowl.  “I already have the scent of a carrier, so I will be able to safely approach him.”

Cyclonus found himself smiling.  “Alright, Prowl.  Stay close to me and obey me implicitly.   Some of my people will fear you because of your tribemate’s attack.  I will not have them feel threatened.”

“I will obey,” Prowl said with bowed helm. 

The Praxian had no idea who this was, but he had no intention of allowing any more of his tribemates to be harmed if he could help it.  Besides, if he was compliant, Cyclonus would eventually begin to trust him. And once that happened, Prowl would be able to use that to his advantage.

 

Hotlink held his injured mate, Nacelle, watching the milling enforcers with apprehension.  They had thought themselves lucky to be chosen from among the courtiers to be given a fertile mate.  They desperately wanted sparklings and were more than happy to bring a Grounder into their family. 

Then the horrid creature attacked them!

Every optic in the room turned as Black Out opened the main door to the residence.  Cyclonus stepped inside, followed by a sleek, black and white Praxian Grounder. 

“What is that barbarian doing here!” gasped Nacelle, shrinking away from the new arrivals.

“Calm yourself, mech,” Cyclonus said, with a trace of annoyance.  “This is my mate Prowl.  He speaks and understands Vosian quite well and has asked to be allowed to try and calm his tribemate.”  He turned to Pharma, who was about to forbid it.  “He is likely already sparked so there should be no danger of the other Grounder imprinting on him.”

Pharma nodded, but immediately scanned Prowl to be sure.  “Your chamber is active.  And there are energies coalescing inside it.  But are you sure your tribemate will be able to tell?”

“My scent is already changing,” assured Prowl. “He will know.”

“Let him try to calm his friend,” said Cyclonus.  “If he is wrong and the mech imprints on him, I will take the other Grounder as my mate.”

Pharma seemed a bit skeptical, but he did not want to spend the entire night here. “Alright, but on your own helm be it.  You may explain it to the Wing Lord if you end up with two mates.”

Hotlink glared at Prowl, scowling as he helped his mate to the door.  They decided to spend the rest of the night cycle at a friend’s home.  They did not want to be anywhere near these barbarians.

Blast Off and the other enforcers kept their weapons at the ready as the door opened, in case the serum was not working, and the Grounder attacked.

There were four other enforcers in the main room along with Cyclonus.  When he walked over to the door controls he motioned them back.  The last thing they wanted was to accidentally have the barbarian imprint on one of them.

Prowl walked cautiously into the room.  His olfactory sensors could smell energon and pheromones. 

He could also easily identify the other mech by his own natural scent. 

“Hound?” he called in the Grounders’ language as he scanned the room.  There was no answer.  But he caught sight of a ped sticking out just on the other side of the berth.

When he reached the Hound, the big green scout was unconscious, laying in a pool of energon.

“Hound!” he gasped, kneeling beside his injured tribemate.  The Praxian quickly examined the wounds on his friend and fellow scout.  His shoulder was dented and would need to be readjusted, that was not important.  It was his helm that concerned Prowl. 

The armor on the back of his helm was split and it was leaking badly. 

“Healer!” he called.  “My tribemate is unconscious!  He has a wound that could be fatal!”

Pharma was a little hesitant to enter, until an annoyed Prowl turned to glare.  “I told you.  He is unconscious.  You may approach without risk of him imprinting on you.”

“I will be the judge of that,” grumbled the Flyer.  He looked at the sprawled Grounder for a moment before approaching.  Prowl stepped back to give him room as the medic knelt beside his injured friend.

The medic looked surprised as his scan confirmed what the Praxian had said.   He quickly began to work on the Grounder.  His helm had been almost caved in.  The metal was pressing into his protoform, putting pressure on his processor.

He noticed that the Grounder simply knelt close by, staying out of his way, but watching intently everything he did.  The fluids seeping from his friend’s helm did not seem to bother him as it would most mechs. Pharma supposed primitive hunters were used to the sight of spilt energon.

The damage was bad, but once he got the helm metal out of the protoform the Grounder was no longer in danger of off-lining. 

Pharma had just finished the last seal when he heard a whimper.  He looked down into the face of the large green Grounder, and two confused blue optics stared back at him.

“He should not be awake yet,” gulped the medic as the Barbarian began to nuzzle his servo.  “No, no, no… You cannot imprint on me!”

“That statement is obviously untrue,” noted the Praxian. 

Ignoring him, Pharma stood and backed away.

The Grounder whimpered and shuffled clumsily after him on his knees.  The Flyer backed up until he was against a wall.  The green mech followed.  He rubbed his cheek against Pharma’s quickly warming interface panel.

“It seems you will be the one explaining to the Wing Lord how you ended up with this Grounder as your mate,” chuckled Cyclonus.

“But I do not want him!” insisted Pharma.

“Why not?” asked Black Out. “I would love to take that sexy mech off your servos.” 

“Believe me, if he could be imprinted on you I would do it,” grumbled the medic. “I am the chief medic to the Wing Lord.  I have no time for podlings.”

“Healer.  If you will allow, I am sure that Hound will care for the little ones,” said Prowl.

“The brute will not want them.  He already tried to kill Nacelle,” grumbled Pharma, biting back a moan as the green mech mouthed his very heated interface panel.  He had not been thinking so he did not shut off his olfactory sensors in time.  The scent of heat that he received was already causing intense arousal.

“When he comes out of heat, let me or our Shaman, Optimus speak to him.  I believe that we can convince him to accept you for the sake of the bitlets,” assured Prowl.

Pharma sighed and reached down to stroke the insistent Grounder’s helm.  “Alright.  I really have no choice.”  Unfortunately, he could not give the mech more of the serum so that he would imprint on someone else.  The serum elevated a mech’s spark rate and increased his metabolism.  Doing so a second time would likely cause his spark to fail. 

“Why does everything have to be so complicated,” Pharma sighed.  He then switched to a private com channel to the Wing Lord.  He was not looking forward to this.  _‘My Lord,_ ’ the medic sent tentatively. _‘My apologies if I am interrupting anything, but, we have a situation…’_

 

Bluestreak backed into the corner as the tall Flyer approached. 

Seeing how frightened the young mech was, the rotary stopped. He smiled warmly.  “No one will harm you, little one,” he assured, trying to sound gentle.  “You are not injured, are you?  Would you like some energon?” The Helo-former produced a cube from his subspace and did his best to appear non-threatening.  Which was surprisingly effective.

Although he did not understand all of what was said, the young mech could feel that the Flyer was being sincere.  “Yes, hungry,” admitted Bluestreak. 

Smiling gently Blades held the cube so the Grounder could drink it.  “Good?”

“Good,” said the young Praxian.  It was warm and sweet.  He took several more drafts from the cube and smiled.  He felt much better being full.

“You are so cute!” the Flyer said brightly.  “My name is Blades.  What is your designation?”

The Grounder looked confused at how friendly his captor was being.  “Bluestreak,” he answered hesitantly 

“That is a nice name,” the Flyer said with a smile.  “I know all of this is kind of scary, Bluestreak.   I heard about what happened when your people were brought in.  Did you lose any family?” asked Blades gently.

“Friends deactivated,” said the young mech sadly.  ‘Creators, brother belong to Praxian tribe.  Me fostered to Iacon tribe.  Jazz and Prowl training to be scout.”

“So, ‘Jass and Perowl’ were caring for you?”  Bluestreak nodded.  “Are they alright?”

“With them, others in big cage,” said the Praxian.  “Not know where friends taken after.”

“If they were in the holding cell they are OK.  They are with their new mates now.”

“New mates?  No.  Jazz and Prowl mates.  Jazz sparked,” gasped the young Praxian, utterly horrified.

“Well, I am sure their new mates will take very good care of them,” assured Blades.  “Now… Bluestreak, I am told you are supposed to say some words to a ritual or something, and then I can take off the restraints,” said the Flyer.  “That will be much more comfortable for you, I am sure.”

There were a lot of complicated words for the young Praxian to process, but he was pretty sure he understood what the mech wanted.   “You want ritual?  Make me carrier?” Bluestreak asked nervously, taking a step away from the Flyer. 

Of course, he had heard the stories.  Every mech had once they were mature enough to start to assume adult responsibilities.  But he thought that was just something that had happened in the distant past. Decent mechs did not do such horrible things, like going around enslaving tribes and claiming another mech’s mate. 

That was barbaric!

“Well, yes and no,” answered Blades.  “As far as my people are concerned, I am your mate already.   I will be taking care of you.  But we will not really be mates in that sense for a while.  Your interface protocols are not online, and I do not want to hurt you.”

“I be mate,” said Bluestreak, wanting to be sure he understood, “But we not face?”

“No, we not… We will not be interfacing until your protocols come online.  You are still considered a youngling.  I will not do anything like that with you before you are ready.”

“Ok,” said the Praxian seeming very relieved.  “We not make bitlets.  What we do?”

“I have been thinking about that a lot,” Blades told him.  “Maybe you could learn about Vos?  It really is a beautiful place.   I think you will enjoy seeing our art.  We can go to the museum, the Theater and the Temple of Primus.  Oh, and the markets.  You have not lived until you have seen all the wonderful things in the markets.”

“We have markets,” ventured Bluestreak.  “Storm Season camps, all tribes meet and trade.  So many mechs and shiny things.”

“That is what we will do.  Tomorrow we will go to one of the markets, and I will get you some Rust Sticks,” said Blades with a smile, he took off the restraints.  The young Grounder was looking a little unsure but interested.

The Flyer suddenly thought, had Bluestreak said that ritual thingy?  Well, he was obviously not going to fight, or try to escape.  It was just a few words.  Right?

“Rust Sticks?” Bluestreak raised an orbital ridge.

Blades grinned.  “You will love them.”

 

Skydive stood outside the room they had set aside for the Grounder sparklings.  “I know you can understand me.  Now open the door this instant!”

 “Just unlock it again,” said Slingshot as he walked in carrying a tray of energon treats. 

“One of the little barbarians managed to jam the lock,” Skydive grumbled.  “I have no idea what they did, but the key sequence no longer works.”

“Very smart, those little barbarians,” chuckled Slingshot.

“They need to learn to obey.  The Wind Lord entrusted us with civilizing these vicious scrapplets.  How are we supposed to do that when they keep hiding and locking the doors on us?”

“Well,” the taller Flyer huffed.  “First off, stop referring to them as scrapplets.  They are frightened sparklings.  Their sire is deactivated, and they have been taken from their carrier.  Of course, they are going to act out.”  Slingshot shook his helm.  “I used to work in the Youngling Home,” he paused, remembering all the little ones whose functions were snuffed out by the virus.  “Sparklings are easily traumatized.  They do not need us being bullies and yelling at them.  What they need is understanding, and a little space.”

He set the tray of energon treats on the floor and rapped on the door.  “Little Ones, my mate and I will move back.  You can open the door and get the treats I promised you earlier. We will not try to stop you.  OK?”  He took the other Flyer by the arm and lead him back down the hall.

Then they watched and waited.  Skydive was tapping his ped in annoyance when they both heard the creaking of the door being pushed open.

Slingshot caught his mate’s shoulder when he saw him start to move towards the doorway.  The mech frowned, but his lover shook his helm firmly.

The tallest of the sparklings, a sleek blue and white mechling peeked out.  His little helm disappeared back into the room when he saw the Flyers watching him.  But he heard no ped falls moving closer, so he popped his helm around again.  Big blue optics found the two adults.  They were still nervous, but this time he leaned out and snatched up the tray before closing the door. 

The loud click after confirmed that it was once again locked and could not be opened from the outside.

“They have been doing this all night,” growled Skydive.

“And will likely continue to do so for a few more.  We need to be patient.  When they are ready they will come out.”

Skydive frowned. “Not if you keep feeding them.”

“These are very young mechlings.  They need affection and reassurance as much as they need fuel.  Eventually we will begin to gain their trust and they will come out.”

 

Hoist sighed as he reset the lock on the door.  He was pleased with himself.  He had seen similar mechanisms in the old temples.  His sire had laughed at his interest, saying it did not matter because the ancient building did not have power.  However, Alpha Trion had called him over and showed him how the corroded circuits had once worked. 

“Perhaps one day, you will be able to restore the power to these ancient wonders, Hoist,” the venerable mech had said patting his helm. 

Then he remembered seeing the old mech’s deactivated chassis.

Once they were alone in the room of the Flyers’ dwelling he started examining the door panels.  Hoist had told his brothers not to worry when he realized that the circuitry in the walls was almost identical to the ancient ruin.  “I can keep them out of here,” he assured.

“What are we to do?  We cannot find Carrier,” whined Huffer.

“Let me take on those nasty Winged Ones,” Brawn declared.  “I can make them take us to Carrier.”

The youngest of the four, Wildrider just huddled beside Huffer, who was sucking on his fingers as he usually did when nervous.  “These Flyers were not the ones that hurt everyone,” he said, laying his helm on his brother’s shoulder.  “They do give us good things to eat.  Like we used to get sometimes at the markets at the Storm Season camp.”

“I do not trust them,” Huffer said gruffly.  “You saw what they did to Kup.”  They all shuddered, getting vivid flashbacks of the sweet old story teller falling beneath the many energon stained blades of the Flyers.

“Those were different.  They were warriors,” Hoist countered.  “The mechs here are not.  They feel more like Carrier and the Shaman.”  He did not know exactly how to put it into words.  But the sparklings quickly learned that while any mech would pat them on the helm and a smile, certain mechs also gave hugs and sometimes played with them.  They always felt warm and welcoming.  The warriors were more reserved.  Watching for danger.

Like the deadly Copper Snake that suddenly rose from where it had been sleeping behind a pile of pelts. The serpent lunged at Windcharger and Ironhide’s spear had pinned it to the ground before the minibot even knew he had been in danger.

That incident was what made Brawn want to be a warrior.

“Do you really think the ones who say they are not going to hurt us?” asked Wildrider.

“The two Winged Ones said they were going to be our new caretakers,” Hoist noted.  “And even if the shorter one yells, the other is nice.  Since we can understand some of their words, maybe if we stop hiding and talk to them, they will let us see Carrier?”

“What if they will not?” asked Huffer.

“Then we get out of here and find Carrier ourselves,” declared Brawn.

 

Silverbolt was almost frantic.  The sinking feelings in his tanks did not ease when he finally caught sight of first the grating for the air vent on the floor.  Then a pair of large blue optics looking at him from the inside vent.

“Oh, bitlet.  How in the world did you get up there?”  The ventilation duct was set in the wall a good helm span taller than him.  There was a chair beneath it, but it was nowhere near tall enough for those tiny sparklings to get up to the vent.

“They are both in there, aren’t they?” asked Air Raid.

The taller of the Seekers stepped on the chair so that he could look into the vent.  With a sigh of relief, he made out a second pair of optics blinking at him from a little further inside.  “Yes, I can see them both.”

Air Raid just shook his helm.  “Primus, are they sparklings or Alloy-Monkeys?  Seekerlings cannot hover that high when they are this young, how the Pit did they do that?”

“I wish I knew,” sighed his mate.  He peered into the darkness.   As he moved closer, both sparklings backed hastily away.  “Please, do not go any further.  There are fans and other machinery.  You could be hurt.”

Both sets of optics widened.  Like the other Grounders, they had the translation patch downloaded into their processors.  However, they were struggling to grasp even the most basic words, since they had only a basic understanding of their own tongue.  The words meant something, but they could not comprehend them all.

The one thing they understood loud and clear was ‘danger’.

The two sparklings nervously chittered to one another.  They knew that word.  Danger was a bad thing.  Carrier said so.  When Carrier said something was dangerous they were supposed to keep away from it.  Like the crystal-spiders with the red spot on the back.  It would make a mechling sick if it bit you, so it was dangerous.

So… The big winged strangers said the place they were hiding in was a bad place.

‘Carrier said stay away from danger,’ said Crosshairs.

‘But the big strangers took Carrier away.  They are bad.’ countered Knock Out folding his little arms.

‘Still, we should not stay in a dangerous place,’ noted Crosshairs thoughtfully. ‘See danger, go to big mech.  Carrier says so.  These only big mechs.’

‘Maybe…’

“Would you two like to play with my friend?” asked the winged mech that was watching them from the end of the dark.  Held up a stuffed Petro-rabbit that was almost as big as the sparklings. 

They stared at it a moment.  And Knock Out’s lip plates began to quiver.  The big floppy toy looked just like the one his sire had given him when they were at the Storm Season Camp.  It had been left behind in their tent when…  The little red sparkling began to cry. ‘Want Carrier!’ he sobbed.

“You do not want the Petro-rabbit?” asked the surprised Flyer, wondering what he did wrong.  He had been around sparklings before.  They always loved stuffed mech-animals.  He started to turn away and step down, when he suddenly had an arm full of hysterical sparkling.

Carefully, he shuffled the squirming mechling and stuffed toy until he held the smaller of the sparklings cradled in his arms while the bitlet held the Petro-rabbit tightly and cried.

The slightly taller sparkling poked his helm out of the vent, making distressed noises.  The Seeker had just stepped off the chair.  He turned to his mate.  “Air Raid, I think he will come to you now.”

The smaller Flyer stepped up onto the chair and held out his arms.  The mechling hesitated only a moment before shuffling forward.  He tumbled out of the vent and into the Seeker’s arms.

“It will be alright,” Air Raid assured, cuddling the tiny red form.

Crosshairs was not sure about that.  But it did feel good to be wrapped in a warm, field filled with love.

The sparklings’ optics met.  ‘Want Carrier,’ sobbed Knock Out sobbed.

 ‘It is alight little brother,’ chirped Crosshairs.  ‘Carrier loves us.  Carrier will find us.’

When the Flyer opened his chest plate and let a feeding nub free, Knock Out nodded to his brother. ‘Carrier loves us,’ he chirped.  Then he shivered a little as he latched onto the nub, feeling too afraid and hungry to resist the temptation.

The energon did not taste the same.  It was warm and good, but this mech was not Carrier.

This mech would never be Carrier.

  
To be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: A look at how Optimus is doing.


	10. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at how Optimus is doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Artificial Heat, Sticky Sex, Threesome, Fingering, Oral, Mutual Masturbation, Injury due to rough sex
> 
> I do not own Transformers, Etc. and any mistakes are my own.

The coming of the dawn caused the lights to come in the Wing Lord’s berth room.  

This also caused Starscream and Megatron to groan in unison.  Both were exhausted from a night of fragging Optimus into the berth.

The rulers of Vos both smiled as they realized that they were curled protectively around their nearly comatose mate. 

Neither Flyer had known exactly what to expect from the serum.   Even though the potent pheromones had begun to disperse, they found that they still had trouble keeping their servos off the sprawled mech’s hot plating. 

While Megatron contented himself with stroking the Grounder’s audio finials, Starscream took out some cleaning clothes and began to wipe away the lubricants and transfluids that splattered most the lanky frame. 

The Flyers had been too tired to even think about it last night once he and Megatron were finally sated.

They had been very thorough in despoiling the formerly virgin Shaman.  Once he was awake, they really needed to get him into the wash rack. 

He was a mess.

“Optimus will carry beautiful sparklings for us,” noted Megatron, petting the Grounder.   He smiled smugly as the unconscious mech leaned into the touch.  They had been told that the serum caused higher processor functions to be almost completely submerged by the heat.   That would seem to be true. 

Optimus was acting more like a contented cyber-cat then a mech.

The Lord Protector ran a possessive servo over the mech’s abdominals.  “How many podlings do you think we sired?”

“According to Pharma, a mech his size could theoretically carry up to eight.  Although, he doubts any of the Grounders will have large litters the first time we spark them.   They had access to only the most primitive medical care and until recently, barely adequate fuel.  From what Skyfire said, even now the maximum number of podlings mechs in the tribes they were observing have been producing is four,” Starscream sighed. 

Admittedly, he wanted more.  Many more.  Even so, the thought of even a small clutch of sparklets pleased him.

Unfortunately, they had more to worry about in the meantime.  “You realize this is not going to be easy?   Anyone who induced heat in their new mates will need to find a way to keep them calm when it wears off.  Stress of any kind is detrimental to developing podlings.”

“They will be fine.  Once the Grounders understand the situation, they will submit as Optimus did,” noted the Megatron with a smirk.   “Let me assure you, our mate will not feel anything but sated.”

“How do you and your ego both fit into the same room?” asked Starscream with chuckle.  Then he ran a servo over Optimus’ abdominal plates.  “We need to find a way to persuade them to accept their place with us.  We must make them see that all of this is for the best.”

 “What we are doing is right, Starscream.  It must be.  Primus has given me visions of this mech since I was a sparkling.  Those dreams were hazy in my waking mind, but when I recharged, he was always there.  My first memory is of watching him playing with a crude toy zap-horse.  When he realized I was there, he offered it to me.  He was sad that I was not able to hold it.”

“I have heard of this.  My carrier insisted I have a well-rounded education in preparation for my duties as Wing Lord.  I recall the priests saying that Primus sees all of time, past, present and future.  That sometimes he sends warnings, or other premonitions.   If what you say is true, and Primus always meant for Optimus to be our mate…”

“Perhaps our lovely Shaman was right.  It is the will of Primus that his children come together,” noted Megatron thoughtfully. “Under our rule.”

“Perhaps,” Starscream conceded.  The Seeker found himself unable to tear his optics from the lovely Grounder’s face plate.  Now that he really had the chance to look at him, it did seem familiar.  Like an image from some half-remembered recharge flux.

For the first time in many stellar cycles, Starscream found himself thinking that he should speak to the Priests. 

And that gave him an idea.

“I wonder,” said the Wing Lord.  “Could we use the Priests of Primus to bring in other Grounder tribes?”

“What do you mean?”

“From what Skyfire’s teams have observed, they appear to be governed by a Theocracy.  If Optimus is any indication, they believe that everything that happens is the will of Primus.  I wonder if we can use this to our advantage.   I know there are passage in the sacred text that call for the Children of Primus to come together and work as one.  According to the old records, some of the clergy at the time quoted them as they argued with Wing Lord Skyquake that his crusade against the Grounders was contrary to the will of Primus.”  Starscream was racking his processor.  He really should have paid more attention during his studies at the temple.

His thoughts were interrupted by the touch of a servo.  Then the painful tightening of it on his arm.

Optimus whimpered plaintively. 

The sleek red and blue mech’s optics looked confused and frightened.  He curled away from the Flyers, his servos clutching at his interface panel.  Starscream petted the distraught mech gently.  “Easy now, Optimus. Let me see?” 

Eventually he managed to coax the frantic Grounder into opening the panel.  Starscream frowned when he saw how discolored, swollen and sore the mech’s valve mesh looked.  There was no small amount of dried energon present.  “We had best call Pharma.”

“I suppose we were a little rough with him,” conceded Megatron grudgingly.  He tried to sound gruff and unconcerned, but his optics said otherwise. 

 “Let’s just hope we did not tear his valve lining or damage his calipers.”  Starscream was mentally kicking himself.   He knew they should have taken things slow with Optimus.  But Primus, the scent of heat had overpowered his reason.

Megatron went to the wash rack and returned with several damp clothes.  At first the Grounder did not want to be touched on his array, but with some gentle words and a lot of petting Optimus let him apply a cloth.  After an initial little whimper, the red and blue mech sighed as the coolness eased the pain.  He nuzzled Megatron’s chest in gratitude while Starscream commed his physician.

 

Pharma looked extremely annoyed as he checked the Grounder over.  Being one of the few mech who could get away with chastising the Wing Lord, a job he relished, the medic did not mince words.  “You cannot use a virgin like a pleasure drone and not expect him to end up damaged.  The serum made him aroused and activated his lubrication, but you should still have taken some care when breaking his seal,” he informed them tersely.

“And if you both intend to penetrate him at the same time, some preparation is necessary.  You are lucky he is such a large mech or it could have done serious harm.  I still had to readjust three of his calipers.  As it is you cannot interface with him until the swelling goes down.  That will take at least a day cycle or so even with frequent application of this ointment.  It will ease the pain and is infused with nanites to aid his self-repair.”

The medic started to dab the thick clear mixture to the shivering Grounder’s abused array, Optimus did not like it at first.  He yelped louder and tried to pull away, kicking at the offending mech.  Megatron quickly moved in to hold him still.  “Shh, easy sweet spark.  This is for your own good.”  He gently petted Optimus. 

Surprisingly, this did calm the frightened mech.  He keened softly, and to Starscream’s surprise, Optimus looked up at him with pleading optics.  The Seeker reached out and stroked his cheek.  The Grounder kissed his servo.

The Wing Lord felt pleased that Optimus wanted him near.  Optimus was alternating between nuzzling his servo and Megatron’s chest. 

“Interesting,” noted Pharma.  “The research I read on the serum has no mention of such needy behavior in our Seeker test subjects.  They have increased interface drives, but when they did not feel the need to interface, they were ambivalent to their mate.  However, your Grounder appears to have imprinted strongly on you both as my new mate has me.  Perhaps because they have lived for so many generations in a harsh environment, they have evolved to be more dependent upon each other than our people.  We will have to see if this behavior is exhibited by all the Grounders that were given the serum.  And more importantly, if it continues once the serum wears off.  If so, it will help them adjust if they develop a need for constant physical contact from the sires.”

Megatron smiled at the thought.  “That would be very useful.”

“Depending on just how strong the need is.  At least while in heat, he may go into a panic if one of you is not close by,” cautioned Pharma.  “I had to sedate my Grounder before I left.  He started whimpering and refused to release my leg strut when he realized I was leaving.”

“Then Optimus will stay with us,” said Megatron.  “We need the Grounders to be integrated into our society.  Having people see our lovely mate clinging to us will help them accept the idea of breeding with Grounders.”

 Pharma stood and took a sterilized cloth from his subspace and cleaned his servos.  “Use the ointment when your mate indicates he is in pain.  You should know that since you will be touching his pleasure sensors, the application will likely cause arousal.  You may bring him to overload manually if you are gentle, but do not use your spikes on him until I clear him for valve interface.  And before you ask, yes, the ointment is safe to ingest in small quantities.” He looked pointedly at Megatron as he spoke.  “I cannot comment as to the taste.”

Trying to keep from laughing Starscream shook his helm.  “Thank you, Pharma.  While you are here, can you tell if he is sparked yet?” asked Starscream.

“I thought you would wish to know,” said the physician.  “His chamber is active and by the energy readings I would say there are definitely several podlings forming.  In a few days once the shells start to form I will be able to tell you exactly how many.  These Grounders seem to conceive very easily.  Cyclonus did not even have to use the serum and his mate is already sparked.”

Smiling, Megatron kissed Optimus on the helm.  Optimus had no idea what was being said, but he felt the happiness radiating from the Lord Protector.  He purred and snuggled closer.

“Thank you, Pharma.  That is very good news,” said Starscream.  “So, how are you adjusting to your new mate?”

“Better than I thought.  Hund?  I think that is what Cylonus’ mate called him, is very passionate.  And affectionate, as your new mate is.” The other mech nodded.  “Speaking of which, I had best get back to him soon.  Because of the hyper aroused state he is in, the sedative will not last very long.”

“I must ask,” said the Wing Lord.  “According to your report on the incident, your mate was very hostile before being given the serum.  Is there a possibility that he might attack you when it wears off?”

“I must assume there is.  I have placed a collar on him that monitors his field.  It will administer a sedative if he becomes angry or overly agitated.  I will be speaking to all those mechs that have Grounder mates.  Any that were put in heat because they were being violent will need a collar also.  I hope to keep them docile, while not harming the podlings.”

Megatron thought for a moment.  “Could we use that for the Grounder in stasis?”

“Let us see if this works for the others first,” said Starscream.  _‘We are not taking him regardless,’_ confirmed the Wing Lord over his com. Megatron glared but said nothing. 

“We will not keep you,” said Starscream.  “And Pharma, as of now you are also off duty, so that you can spend more time with your mate.  If anything, other than a life-threatening emergency come up, we can call your staff.”

 

After the door closed behind the physician, Megatron lifted Optimus into his arms.  Starscream was startled by the move.  “Megatron? You know we cannot interface with Optimus.”

Megatron smiled as the Grounder clung to him.  “I am taking him to the wash rack.  He is still somewhat sticky.”

“Good idea,” admitted Starscream.  “As long as we keep our spikes to ourselves.”

“I would be more than happy to keep them between us,” Megatron chuckled.  “Perhaps Optimus would like to watch?”

“It might give him desires we cannot fulfill,” Starscream said with a sigh.

“Pharma did say we can overload him manually.”

The Wing Lord shook his helm as the trio entered the massive, almost obscenely opulent wash rack.  “I do not believe that is what he intended.”

Megatron stepped down into the deep, circular tube, which was already filled with steaming solvent.  It was always ready should the rulers of Vos need a hot bath.

Optimus seemed content to be held while the Lord Protector settled in, until his aft and array reached the solvent.  He jerked and whimpered.  That was too hot!

“Shh, easy.  It will feel better soon,” assured Megatron.  He kissed and caressed the nervous Grounder.  Starscream joined in, caressing Optimus. 

Soon the Grounder became used to the heat touching his more intimate places, he settled down between the two Flyers and let them bathe him.  He enjoyed the warm servos that seemed intent on touching every inch of him. 

When Optimus was set on the seat beside them, he took a more active role, tentatively returning the touches.  Until a quick movement from the Flyers sloshed solvent at his helm.

With a mischievous grin, he splashed Starscream in the face plate.  The Wing Lord just blinked at him for a moment, then he grinned and playfully splashed Optimus in return.  When Megatron joined in on their game he had the advantage, having the largest servos.

Eventually splashing turned to tickling.  And tickling turned back into more sensual caresses.  It did not take long for all pretense of washing to fall away as all three mechs kissed and touched one another.

It was going well, until Megatron released his spike.   Optimus whimpered and pulled away, his servos covered his interface panel and shook his helm frantically.

True, he remembered that it had felt good before, but he still hurt down there.  He did not want that big thing in him! 

Megatron slowly approached the frightened mech.  Starscream grabbed his arm. “Do not frighten him more.”

“I will not,” he assured.  The gray warrior touched Optimus’ cheek.  “Do not fear me,” he said continuing his gentle touches.  “You need never fear me.”  He leaned in, softly kissing his dermas.  “Only pleasure between us.” 

The Lord Protector moved the protective servos and gently massaged Optimus’ closed panel.  “Only pleasure,” he repeated when he finally coaxed the Grounder’s panel to open.  As he gently stroked the sleek mech’s tender mesh.  His other servo took Optimus’ and guided it to his spike.  The mech looked a little nervous, until the servo closed over his, causing it to encircle the enlarged spike.  Then it was moved, causing the big mech to gasp and thrust between his curled fingers.

Optimus was fascinated by the way the big gray mech moaned and the intense feelings coming from him.  So much so that when Starscream moved closer, he reached out to stroke his spike as well.

Now this was nice.  He was giving pleasure and it did not hurt.

Optimus like the way their fields rolled over him.  So much so that when their fingers again returned to his valve he relaxed into the touches.

Megatron and Starscream were both moaning loudly and thrusting while Optimus soaked up their arousal.   

Soon they all three wanted more. 

Lifting both his mates out of the bath, Megatron had the mechs in his lap.  A servo caressing each of their valves.  They were purring.

“Want you both,” he growled.

“I think we can work something out,” Starscream said, encouraging Megatron to lay on his back.  He rubbed his wet valve over the very ridged organ.   The Grounder was enthralled by the sight of Starscream impaling himself.  He winced, expecting the Seeker to be in pain.  But he was not. 

His field was wild with arousal and pleasure as he rode his mate.

Optimus was becoming more and more excited, watching the pair interface.  And they had not forgotten about him.  When he saw how aroused the sexy mech was, the Seeker took Optimus’ servo.  He encouraged the shy bot to straddle Megatron, with his exposed valve tantalizingly hovering over the gray mech’s intake.

His glossa darted up into the inviting port.  Optimus yipped and moved away at first.  But it had not hurt, the warm wet touch had just startled him.  With encouragement from the two Flyers he moved back into range of Megatron’s glossa.

It felt good.  As did the servos on his thighs and sides, and the eager lip plates on his intake.  Eventually he pressed down on Megatron’s face plate while Starscream claimed more kisses.  With soft moans into one another’s intakes, Starscream and the Grounder climaxed together. 

Megatron pulled them both up against him, enjoying the feel of them.  Starscream lay with his helm on a broad shoulder, gently caressing his mate’s chest plate.  Optimus was nuzzling his neck affectionately.    

“Mine,” Megatron said softly, kissing Optimus passionately.

“Ours,” Starscream corrected, moving in for a kiss of his own.  

“Ours,” Megatron conceded with a chuckle.

Optimus, knowing only that all this attention felt very nice, could only purr in agreement.

Even if something nudged at his processor.  A feeling that he was missing something important.

Until Megatron pulled him over to lay on his broad chest plate and he was once again being kissed.

Optimus dismissed the feeling. 

It was time for cuddles.

 

To be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Revisiting some of the other Grounders.


	11. Morning In Vos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at how some of the Grounders are getting doing with their new mates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Artificial Heat, Depression, Prejudice, Religious Intolerance
> 
> I do not own the Transformers etc. and any mistakes are my own.

Astrotrain opened the door to his quarters.  He was returning to his home with his subspace packed with energon treats. 

His new mate, Ironhide, had a sweet denta.  The Shuttle quickly learned that once he offered the big red mech some energon pastries.  The primative practically inhaled the treats.  He then licked his master’s fingers clean to be sure he got every sweet, sticky drop.

Fortunately, the Astrotrain was officially off duty for the next five-day cycles, as were all the mechs that had been given Grounder mates.  This was so they would have time to get used to one another.

Not that he or his pliant mate needed it.   

The large red warrior was curled up in a corner when his master returned to him.  Not surprising.  Since injecting him with the heat inducing serum the barbarian wanted to be touched all the time.  When Astrotrain was not close by his mate was near panic.  He ended up in a corner, shivering and whimpering anxiously.

“Hey Sweetspark, I’m home.”

The Grounder’s bright blue optics looked up at him happily.  He blinked at Seeker, almost as if he could understand what was said.  When he came close the mech crawled towards him with a needy whine.   

The shyly smiling face plate nuzzled his servo affectionately. 

Much different than the sullen scowl that had been on the Grounder’s face plate when he woke to find himself in Astrotrain’s berth.  True he did not fight.  Ironhide glared, his field ripe with barely contained anger and disgust even as he recited the ritual, giving the words of submission to his master.

He had cooperated.  Grudgingly. 

The Grounder gave his name, then bared his valve.

It was very abrupt and not at all as a submissive mate should behave.  And frankly, it was not very arousing for Astrotrain.  Staring at a dry valve, while disgust radiated from the bowed mech so thick you could cut it with a vibro-blade.

When he did nothing for a few minutes the Grounder growled without looking back and sneered.  “Winged One spike no work?  No want fag me?” That last part sounded almost hopeful.   

The Vosian felt no shame in using the serum.  How was he supposed to get aroused enough to frag and spark up his new mate when the barbarian reacted to Astrotrain as if he were dealing with a rabid cyber-skunk?

Ironhide was no prize himself.  Who else would take the bulky old warrior?  His one virtue was that he was one of three barbarians that was large enough for Astrotrain to take to his berth and not have to hold back for fear of injuring him.

The damned Grounder should be grateful that anyone would take him!

It was not as if Ironhide were his first choice.  The one Astrotrain really wanted was the big blue and white warrior.  Oh, he was gorgeous, sexy and even better, sturdy enough to take some rough handling.  But the Wing Lord said no.  The excuse was that the mech was too dangerous.  The Triple-changer had his doubts.  He was sure that he was strong enough to ‘persuade’ the barbarian to submit. 

The more likely explanation was that Megatron intended to take him quietly as a second mate once more fertile Grounders were brought in.

It was not fair.  The Lord Protector and Wing Lord had already claimed the sleek, sexy red and blue mech for themselves.  That gorgeous Grounder would have been the Shuttle’s second choice.  Oh, he would have loved to get his spike into that sweet piece of aft.

Astrotrain smiled, holding out one of the energon treats.  The red mech purred and opened his intake to accept it, waiting patiently to be fed.  When the Flyer eventually relinquished the treat, Ironhide licked his servo in gratitude.

The Grounder whined, begging for more treats. 

When his master closed the bag and opened his interface panel the Grounder squealed with delight, turned, offering his very wet valve.  He wiggled his aft enticingly.

“Yes, our bitlets need transfluids.  You are such a good mate,” Astrotrain said, grinning.  His spike was already pressurized as he knelt behind the bright red form and slid into the welcoming sheath. 

Too bad there was not a way to keep the barbarian in heat.  Like this, Ironhide was better than a pleasure drone.  He was so enthusiastic, so needy.

At least from what he knew of the serum, the barbarian’s interface drive would be greatly increased once he was sparked.   If he was still surly once the serum wore off, Astrotrain might have to punish him.  Perhaps if he refused to interface with the stubborn wretch for a time, it would help the Grounder learn to appreciate his master.

Not that it mattered now.  For the next few days, Ironhide was going to be a very submissive and wonderfully horny mate.  Astrotrain intended to enjoy that time to the fullest.

 

Ratchet reigned in his annoyance as the purple Flyer petted him again.   He was not a cyber-hound for Primus sake, but the damned Seeker could not stop stroking him. 

The Grounder did not mind the blue one so much.  Thundercracker was the more mature, level helmed one.  That was obvious from the start.

Skywarp was, more impulsive.  He had ended up taking Ratchet three more times before morning.

The blue Seeker had joined in the last time, coaxing Ratchet to straddle his hips and ride his spike. 

It was Thundercracker that woke first and had some flavored energon ready when the Grounder and his flighty mate opened their optics.

It was good.  Just a little sour with a slightly sweet after taste. It was infused with Cybertonium.  He was glad of that.  The Grounder tribes always kept a large supply of it in their stores.  They ground it up and used it as a supplement in their energon.  It not only enhanced the flavor, but it helped keep their protoforms healthy and helped carriers produce energon for their bitlets. 

Ratchet waited for a cue from his masters that he was allowed to get out of the berth.  So far they did not mistreat him, but this was the first night and he was not sure what they wanted of him. 

“Come on, Ratchet,” said Thundercracker with an inviting smile.  “Let’s go to the wash rack.”

Ratchet gave him a concerned look. “I can wash myself, no need to put me on a rack,” he said, backing away nervously. 

The only racks he knew of were what was used to stretch mech-animal skins. 

The Seekers both stared at him for a moment, until Skywarp realized what he was implying and laughed.  “That’s not what it means.  A wash rack is just what we call the place we bathe.”

“Ah… OK,” Ratchet said, still not convinced.

“Come on, Ratchet,” Thundercracker motioned for him to follow.

The Grounder fell into step behind the blue Flyer.  He looked around nervously as they walked into a large steamy room with slick looking white and blue polished stone surfaces.  There was a large depression filled with what smelled like so sort of cleaning fluid in the middle of the room and several cubicles with metal pipes sticking out of the walls around it.

“Never seen anything like this?  Do not worry.  Come on, Ratchet,” said Skywarp used a finger to stir the steaming liquid. “You will like this.”

“We have hot springs in the caverns near our Storm Season camps,” Ratchet noted, running a servo over the smooth walls. He resented the fact that they still seemed to consider him ignorant.  “The Kaonite tribes have done similar things with some of them.  Routing the water into areas made with depressions like this.”  He looked down at the tube.  “They are very relaxing.  But can get too hot to be safe for younglings.”  The healer placed a servo on his abdominal plating.  “Or sparked mechs.”

“Do not worry.  The temperatures are controlled.  We would never do anything to endanger you or our podlings,” assured Thundercracker, stepping into the basin.

Ratchet nodded, but still ran a quick scan on the fluid.  The temperature was within the safe zone, as long as he did not stay submerged in it for too long. 

Putting a tentative ped into the solvent he had to admit that It felt good.  He stepped in and sat on the bench that went around the sides.  Ratchet sighed, trying to forget about his situation and just relax.  His masters smiled as he leaned his helm back, sinking in and letting the solvent start working on the course sand that was still in his joints.

Living in the desert, sand was one of the great constants in his life.  It got everywhere. He flinched when a servo brushed his chassis.  Ratchet steeled himself as Skywarp caressed his chest plates.  The Grounder was not surprised.  Another reason younglings were not allowed in the hot spring caverns is that they were very conducive to interfacing. 

He and Ironhide’s last clutch of podlings had been conceived in those caverns.

The healer shuddered his optics and pushed that memory away.  Those times were special, and the Grounder did not want his memories tainted. 

He was a slave now.  His chassis belonged to the Flyers. 

Their fields began to pulse with arousal.  To his shame, Ratchet’s frame responded in kind.  He was sparked, so his interface drive was already increasing. 

Ratchet tried not to feel too disgusted by the desire for his owners.  It was simple biology.  Nothing to do with what he wanted, only what his chassis needed to keep the podlings healthy. 

Thundercracker’s servos joined his mate’s in exploring Ratchet’s plating.

Unlatching his interface panel, the healer spread his legs, knowing what they wanted.

If they caught any hint of his inner turmoil, neither Flyer gave any indication.  They were too busy licking his plating.

Burying deep any thoughts of his beloved mate and his tribe, Ratchet tried not to think at all. 

That was probably for the best.

After all, Slaves were not supposed to think too much anyway.

 

Jazz woke shivering as he woke from a bad flux. 

He whimpered, stiffening as he felt a strange field enveloping him.   An amorous one.  The recharge flux had not ended.  The Praxian was held firmly in the arms of the Flyer that had claimed him, and his podlings.   

The mech noticed his reaction but did not seem to consider it relevant.  The Seeker’s interface panel was warming as it began to rub against his aft.  Jazz attempted to pull away, but Nova Storm was having none of it.  “Shh…  Relax, little ones need transfluids.”

Shuddering his optics, the Grounder did the only thing he could.  Obey.

When the servo began to stroke his panel, he opened it and manually released lubricant.  Unfortunately, his master was right.  The bitlets needed all the transfluids they could get. 

He was glad that they would not absorb CNA from the Flyer.  These were Prowl’s podlings.  They would take in the nanites from the transfluids and break them down to build their protoforms, but they took nothing else from the mech that had enslaved him.

At least his master took things slowly.  His big spike worked its way in a little at a time.  Eventually it stopped being mildly uncomfortable and the Grounder reacted to the stimulation.  His valve soon tightened around the spike, causing Nova Storm to climax. 

“So sweet,” the Seeker whispered, nuzzling Jazz’s neck cables.

Jazz did nothing except lay limply in the Seeker’s arms.  Even as he felt the podlings little teeks of happiness when receiving the transfluids, the Grounder felt his own spark sink.  He kept his field even, trying to hide the despair that had begun to grow in his spark.

Coolant leaked from his optics while his master petted him.  It had not even been an entire day cycle since he was claimed and the black and white mech had already lost hope.

It was at that moment that he felt the loving touch of his mate.  _‘Jazz?  Has he hurt you?  Are the podlings alright?’_

Jazz felt his spark swell at the touch of his mate. _‘Prowler!’_ He was so happy he almost said it out loud. Keeping his field tight, he reached out with all his love.  _‘Fine… I’m fine.’_   He pulled back his pain and tried to project a brave front.  _‘Sorry, just thinking too much.’_

 _‘I understand.’_   Prowl could read him like a data pad.  _‘I have some news.’_ The sparked Grounder realized immediately that his mate was changing the subject.  Jazz allowed it.  _‘I saw Hound.’_ Prowl said, sending details about what had happened during the night cycle.

_‘Primus, Hound’s been put in heat?  What was he like?’_

Prowl sighed. _‘It is good that I managed to get Cyclonus not to use the serum on me.  From what I saw, it turns a mech into an interface starved mech-animal.  Hound could not speak.  He just fixated on a healer of the Flyer tribe to be the sire of his podlings.  The only positive in all this is that he obviously did not give the mech his submission.  I hope that perhaps Optimus or I can persuade him to bide his time.  If he does not fight, he may eventually be given an opportunity to escape.’_

 _‘If only we could,’_ sent Jazz before he could stop it.

 _‘Beloved, do not lose hope.  I will find a way out for all of us.  I promise.’_  There was a long pause, and then Jazz felt his mate’s comforting presence begin to pull back. _‘I must go.’_ With a last surge of love, he broke the connection. 

“Come Jass, little ones need fuel,” said Nova Storm.

Jazz nodded, ignoring the mispronunciation and allowed himself to be helped to his peds.  He had a feeling this was going to be a trend.  This mech coaxing him into whatever he wanted using the podlings as an excuse.  And the Grounder would do whatever the mech wanted for their sake.  Even though he already dreaded learning what would happen to them once they emerged. 

Would they become also be slaves to the Flyers?  That thought weighed heavy on his spark along with one other.

If he was now a breeder, eventually Nova Storm was going to want podlings of his own.  But every mech knew, it was almost impossible to be sparked while nursing podlings. 

Would they take the podlings away so that he could conceive again?  Would he even be allowed to see them unfurl?

Pushing such thoughts aside for now, Jazz obediently follow his master to a much larger room.  There were several large chairs arranged in a semicircle, probably to make conversations with his friends easier.  Also, a massive screen, like a gigantic data pad of some sort covered most of one wall.

At the moment, it was dark.

Sitting on a very comfortable seat, Jazz took a cube of energon.  He sipped it thoughtfully as Nova Storm sat down beside him.  “You good mate, Jass,” he beamed, seeming to expect the Grounder to want or need the praise. Honestly, he was more annoyed at the Flyer reverting to the mispronunciation of his designation. “We stay here for now.  Get to know each other.”  He patted the black and white mech’s knee.  “Tomorrow, we go out.  See Vos.”

Jazz simply nodded as his tanks churned.  Being forced to submit to his master was bad enough.  The last thing he wanted was to be paraded around and gawked at like a two headed grid-wolf by a bunch of curious Flyers.  

Primus, he missed Prowl.

 

Having reluctantly broken contact with his mate, Prowl turned to find his master standing in the doorway.  “Is something wrong?” he asked at the far away look in the tall Flyer’s optics.

“I just received a comm from Lord Protector Megatron.   It seems we are invited to a meeting of the Council.”  Cyclonus still seemed a little distracted.

“Is that a problem?” asked Prowl.

“The Wing Lord wanted to allow you and the other Grounders time to adjust before bringing any of you before the Council.  Something apparently changed his processor rather suddenly,” noted Cyclonus. 

“Your arrival in Vos was not a secret.  I saw a number of mechs watching as your tribe was placed in the holding cell.” Cyclonus nodded.  “My guess would be that some of the Council are demanding to see the mechs that will save us from extinction.”

“You do not sound very pleased about this development.”

The Seeker sighed.  “Very astute indeed.  Some of the Council are members of a sect that believe only Flyers are the true children of Primus.”

“That makes no sense,” said Prowl.  “The fact that our peoples can interbreed proves that we are the same species.”

The Flyer sat beside him, he seemed almost ashamed as he spoke. “They believe that Grounders were not blessed by Primus with a divine spark.”

Prowl cocked his helm, now that was a shock.  “Even after your people destroyed our cities and drove our ancestors into the desert, we always knew Flyers were Primus’ children.  Obviously, we believed you were wrong and the things your ancestors did were horrible.  Still, we never doubted that your people have Primus given sparks.”

 “Nice to know your people are so enlightened.”

“Admittedly, it took time for us to forgive your people,” admitted the Grounder.   The first few meetings between Flyers and Grounders after the Fall of Iacon went badly.  But eventually, cooler helms prevailed, and a tentative, mutually beneficial truce was reached.  Flyers that sought out the Grounder tribes for trade had become a rare, but not unwelcome occurrence.

Cyclonus laughed, pulled Prowl into his lap and kissed him.  “If those zealots will not accept your people as mates, they are fools.”  

 

Swindle was already plotting his escape.

The Seeker, Ion Storm, held him possessively, snoring loudly in his audio. 

The Grounder tuned out the unpleasant noise.  His ‘mate’ would be in recharge for some time.  By the time Swindle was done with him, the mech had overloaded half a dozen times.  The Grounder only managed to climax once.  And that was only due to his own efforts.

Swindle had nothing but contempt for the mech who had claimed him.  He was a bully.  No decent mech would threaten, or worse, strike the mech he claimed as his mate.  He had met a few like that before.  Physically large and strong, but weak minded. 

And controlling.  Mechs like this one had to control every aspect of their mate’s life.

That was going to make escape a little more difficult.  But not impossible. 

Swindle would find a way to gain Ion Storm’s trust.  A little flattery, and ego stroking and eventually the mech would begin to allow him a little freedom.   Then a little more. 

The first order of business was to ingratiate himself to Ion Storm’s superiors. After a few minutes with the mech he knew this pathetic loser was not part of the Flyer hierarchy.  He was a peon.

Everyone needed something and if Swindle was good at anything, it was finding a need, then fulfilling it.

All he needed was access to someone with real power.

He was occupied with his own thoughts when he felt his master’s arm tighten around his waist.  Swindle expected the Seeker to start fondling him again.  Instead, he froze, then after a moment sat up.

“It seems we are needed,” he grumbled, looking down at the Grounder.  “The Wing Lord wants to introduce some of your people to his council, particularly ones that are fluent in our language.”

At this Swindle perked up.  It seemed Primus was smiling on him if he was to be brought before the Wing Lord.  His Seeker contacts sometimes spoke of the Wing Lord Starscream.  He was said to be quite shrewd. 

This was exactly what he needed.  A chance.

“The Wing Lord wants to make a good impression on the Council.  You will be on your best behavior,” cautioned Ion Storm.  “If you embarrass me at court I will remove your vocalizer.”  His optics blazed, causing the Grounder shrink from him. 

Which seemed to be exactly what the Seeker wanted.

He smiled.  “Do we understand each other, Swindle?”

“We understand each other, master,” answered Swindle demurely.  _‘Yes, ‘master’, I intend to make a very good impression on this Wing Lord of yours.’_

 

Several hours earlier. 

Starscream was annoyed.  His Chief of Staff was sending urgent comms.   The High Priest of Primus Dia Atlas and Metalhawk, the President of the Council were in his office demanding to speak to him.

“Something wrong?” asked Megatron.  He was looking at Starscream, but he had two fingers in Optimus’ valve.  His excuse was that the lovely Grounder had seemed uncomfortable, and obviously needed more of the ointment that Pharma left.

Starscream could not really say anything, since he was guilty of doing the same thing.  Every time their mate made a sound or movement that they could interoperate as being mildly uncomfortable, one of them was using the medicine on his valve. 

The poor mech was barely conscious most of the day cycle from the nearly non-stop overloads.

“It seems I must meet with Dia Atlas and Metalhawk immediately,” sighed the Wind Lord.

“Do you think they intend to make trouble?” asked Megatron, pulling Optimus close as the Grounder clutched at him, trembling with his climax. 

“I suspect they have been given information on our acquisitions and either intend to demand fertile mates or berate me for encouraging our people to have intimate relations with sparkless mech-animal.”

 “Fifty shanix it is the latter.”

“I will not take that bet.  Knowing them, the odds are entirely in your favor.”

 

Once he was facing the two scowling nobles, Starscream sighed with relief.

He was glad he did not take the bet from his mate. 

He would have owed Megatron fifty shanix.

 

To be continued.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long. Real Life has really been getting in the way of my writing. I cannot say that the next chapter will be up in a week, but I do have a good portion of it written so it should not take nearly as long to post.
> 
> Next time: The Grounders meet some of the Vosian Council.


	12. Persuasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Priests of Primus and Vosian Council demand to meet the Grounders. Things do not go exactly has planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit later than I intended, but it is a very long chapter. Hopefully it balances out.
> 
> Mentions of oral, but no other real warnings needed for this one.
> 
> I do not own the Transformers etc and any mistakes are my own.

Starscream had not wanted to introduce the Grounders to his Council yet.  He had hoped to wait until the Iaconians were more acclimatized to the situation to force them to interact with either the Council mechs or Priests.  And the last thing he wanted was for those Sharticons to be anywhere near Optimus in this present state. 

Thanks to the serum, he was little better than a needy, interface starved beast.  Which is what many of the Priest and Council Mechs assumed the Desert dwelling tribes were anyway.

Unfortunately, when word reached them that he and Megatron had taken one of the Grounders to their berth they insisted on inspecting him.  At least they would be able to see that the mechs, while their standards of living were primitive, were not stupid. 

After speaking to those that had not induced heat in their mates he was very happy to learn that Optimus was not the only one that spoke Vosian.  Cyclonus was quite impressed by how intelligent his new mate was.  Ion Storm was a bit more reluctant to admit that his mate had been a merchant of some sort that had dealt extensively with Seekers.  The Enforcer was reluctant to bring him.  He did not seem to entirely trust the Grounder, but Starscream needed well-spoken mechs.

 Thundercracker proudly told him that he and Skywarp’s new mate ‘Ratchet’ not only spoke fluent Vosian but was also a healer. 

This was good news.  With Optimus being mentally inhibited (thank you so much, Megatron!) Starscream needed to have Grounders that could answer questions intelligently and hopefully prove that their desert kin were just that, kin.

Unfortunately, much misinformation had already been spread by guards and workers that had been present when the Grounders were brought in.  All they had seen were ragged, barbarians huddled together, most trembling with fear as they were herded into the holding cell.  And of course, there were the medics with their exaggerated horror stories of being attacked by the one called Ultra Magnus. 

To listen to what was going around now you would think the warrior tore apart the med bay with his bare servos and slaughtered a dozen mechs.

Megatron was not exactly pleased by this unpleasant turn of events either.  One of Pharma’s medical staff had dropped by a short time ago and cleared Optimus for valve interfacing.  Both the Wing Lord and his Protector wanted to atone for their mistakes that first night by showing him that they could be gentle.

And they wanted to be gentle with him as often as physically possible.

The young Medic agreed.  “As long as he shows no signs of discomfort, you may interface with him.  In fact, the podlings need as much transfluids as you can give.  It would be best if you both interfaced with him several times today.” 

Now that was medical advice that Megatron was very willing to follow.

But instead of spending the day in the berth pleasuring Optimus into recharge over and over, they were going to be forced to interact with a bunch of politicians and religious zealots.

This was not his Lord Protector’s favorite pastime under any circumstance.   The Wing Lord could take care of those fools.  Megatron found the Council and members of the Priesthood annoying and frankly, boring.  The less time he spent with either group, the better. 

Now he was stuck with both, probably for most of the day cycle.

 “So, no way for Optimus and I to skip this little gathering?” asked Megatron.  He had Optimus curled up in his lap, purring like a contented cyber-cat.  They had not had the chance to coax him into a full valve interface yet, but Megatron was sure given time they would persuade him.

He was alright when they released their spikes, but the moment Megatron tried to get it between his legs with the obvious intent of penetration, he panicked. (His ped just missed the Lord Protector’s spike, persuading him that maybe he should go a bit slower.)  The gray mech did not want their mate to fear him so he pulled back and once Optimus calmed, brought him to overload with his glossa. 

Unfortunately, it was going to take time to coax him into letting them take him again. 

“You know how stubborn they can be,” sighed Starscream.  “Dia Atlas all but threatened me with excommunication if I do not bring some of the Grounders to them.  Especially Optimus since we intend to use him to create our heirs.”

“As if Primus would listen to him,” smirked Megatron. 

“Primus might not, but enough people will that I could have mechs challenge my right to lead Vos,” cautioned Starscream.  It was rare, but by law any mech could challenge the Wing Lord’s right to rule. 

Although it is the Lord High Protector that they would fight.   It was implicit in his title.

“Who would be so foolish?” Megatron growled, flaring his plating.  Starscream had chosen him for a reason.  He was the strongest, most dangerous warrior in Vos. 

Optimus blinked at him uncertainly, feeling a sudden spike of anger in his field.  The Lord Protector forced himself to relax and petted the startled mech.  “Easy sweet spark.  You have done nothing wrong,” he assured Optimus, who relaxed and burrowed against his chest plate.  He then turned to his mate.  “Dia Atlas himself is the only one among them that might possibly stand a chance of even giving me a decent fight.” 

Starscream nodded.  That was true.  The high priest was a warrior of no small skill.  And he was almost as large and powerful as Megatron.  The Wing Lord knew the strength and skill of his Lord Protector, but unlike Megatron, he would not underestimate the priest.

“Just remember, we are doing this to save our people from extinction.  Being forced to kill some of them would be counterproductive.  And as annoying as they can be, we do not want to alienate the Priesthood.  Our people look to them for comfort and guidance.”

“They should stick to that and leave us alone.  I simply do not understand why this is such an issue.  If they do not want to mate with Grounders and have no heirs, I say, let them.  What business is it of theirs who we frag?”  He was irritated but kept his voice and field controlled so as not to startle or upset Optimus again.  It pleased Starscream that Megatron was becoming very protective and conscious of his actions, and their consequences. 

At least when it came to their sparked mate.

“The doctrine many in the priesthood follow states that only flight frames have the Divine Spark of Life.  They consider Grounders to be mech-animals.  In their optics mating with one is akin to bestiality and they could try to block any heirs produced by a Grounder from becoming Wing Lord.”

“And you believe that letting them talk to a couple of the Grounders will change their minds?” Megatron did not sound convinced. 

“To be honest, I am hoping that being close enough to feel their sparks will help, but this is not just for them.  This meeting is also a way to reach the people.  I am having the meeting recorded.  I want to show all of Vos that the Grounders are true mechs.  To help with that, I am going to have some of the sparklings brought to the meeting also.  I think seeing those adorable little bitlets should win over a lot of mechs.”

“I think you have something there,” admitted Megatron.   With a sigh he nudged Optimus.  Innocent blue optics blinked up at him.  “Come, sweet spark.  We have some people to see.”

 

Ratchet did not like this one bit.

“Let me get this straight.  You want me to convince your Elders that we Grounders have sparks?” he snorted incredulously.   “Shall I convince them that rain is wet next?  Primus’ on a Unicycle, what kind of idiots run this tribe?  What do they think we are?  Petro-rabbits?  Frankly, if some of your people would rather die out than mate with mine, I do not see that a problem.”  The last thing he wanted was to encourage any of the Flyers to capture more of his people.

“He has a point, Thunder,” noted Skywarp.

“You are not helping,” muttered the blue Seeker, trying not to face palm.   He turned to the Grounder and placed a servo on his shoulder.  “Ratchet, you are right.  Some of them are idiots, but they are idiots with power.  They are a danger to you and the others from your tribe.”

“They would try to harm us?” Ratchet’s servo went to his abdomen.  He had not wanted these little ones, but Primus curse it, they were his too.  He was already feeling little teeks from their fields and his protector protocols were beginning to engage. 

He was not going to allow them to be put in danger.

“Yes, they might,” said Thundercracker.  “That is why we need to convince them that you and your people are true children of Primus.”

“Looks like I have no choice,” grumbled Ratchet.

 

The room was massive.  Larger than even the entranceway to the main temple in Iacon.  

Cyclonus has said they were going to some sort of meeting with important mechs of the Flyer tribe.  Ones that did not agree with his Wing Lord taking Grounders to berth because they believed his people to be dumb mech-animals.

Ones that might want them killed rather than allow the podlings they carry to emerge and ‘pollute’ their society.

They had been waiting only a few moments when Prowl heard the door open.  Cyclonus had not mentioned that other tribe mechs were being brought, so he was surprised to see Ratchet being lead into the meeting room by a pair of Seekers.  

The purple one kept possessively close to the healer, while the other seemed more interested in seeing who else was in the room. 

Apparently, these two were Ratchet’s masters. He also noticed the look that the blue one gave him as they approached. A shudder ran through the Prxian as he felt lust in the mech’s field.  It made him a little uncomfortable.

The two Grounders ignored their respective owners for the moment.  They nodded and sent quick greetings over their coms.  _‘Prowl.  You appear to be unhurt,’_ he sniffed the air _, ‘and sparked.’_ noted Ratchet. _‘He treats you well?’_

 _‘Yes.  My… master is a kind mech in his way,’_ answered Prowl.  He quickly sent Ratchet a data packet, appraising him of the situation with Jazz and Hound.  The two mechs that he had news of.

Ratchet nodded, sending a packet of his own.  Prowl felt sick at spark at what happened to Ironhide. 

Every mech in the tribe respected the older warrior's skill.  Had he wanted the position he could easily have been chief hunter.  Ultra Magnus would have deferred to him. He simply preferred to let someone else take the lead.  The Scout sent a pulse of sympathy to his friend.

“Ah, nice to see some fellow Grounders,” said a cheerful voice, startling them.  They turned to see a pale blue Seeker escorting in the trader, Swindle. He was not exactly a favorite of either mech.  His dealings with the tribe had always been fair and equitable, but something about him just rubbed both mechs the wrong way.

“Quiet!” snapped the Seeker that was with him.  The purple and yellow mech flinched as if expecting to be struck.

They had no comm connection with the merchant, but they did not need it to see that his master was anything but kind.

They suspected he had not always been completely honest in his dealings with the tribe, but the Grounders felt sympathy for him.  Even so, Swindle did not deserve to be owned by an abusive master.

Both tensed as the merchant cringed and carefully nuzzled the scowling mech’s servo in an obvious attempt to placate him.  Ratchet was near giving the Seeker a piece of his processor when another mech walked in. 

The Shuttle was massive.  Much larger than even the gray warrior that had defeated Ultra Magnus.  And he carried with him two tiny podlings.  Both mechs gasped, for they had thought all the bornlings had perished with their carrier.  The bitlets were in a strange clear container, cuddled up together.  The huge mech cradled the clear box carefully against his chest plates.

Ratchet wanted to take the tiny, helpless mechlings from the clutches of the Shuttle, but he knew better.  His masters might be understanding, but if he was defiant they would likely not hesitate to punish him.   Besides while the bitlets’ coloring seemed little dull, they did not appear malnourished. 

Maybe they were adjusting.  They were so young that the bonds with their creators were new and not yet fully established.  Were they beginning to form a bond with the massive Flyer?

His spark sank with a sense of dread.  Ultra Magnus had been captured alive, but had the Flyers killed the hunter to allow the bond to form easier?

His protector protocols spiked watching the bornlings wriggling fitfully in recharge. 

He was about to risk angering his masters and the Shuttle by scanning the little ones when two new Seekers walked in carrying Windcharger’s bitlets.  Ratchet growled when he saw the little red sparklings.  Their coloring was very dull, as if they were not fueling and recharging properly. 

Each mechling lay listlessly in the arms of a Seeker.

“Healer, no,” Prowl realized things were about to escalate when he felt Ratchet’s anger.  He reached for his arm, but healer ignored him and stormed up to the startled Seekers.  Frag being punished.  These sparklings were ill and needed him.  “Where is their carrier?” he demanded of the pair.

“What?” gasped Air Raid in surprise as a furious Grounder stepped into his path.

“You heard me?  Has it been so long since you Flyers have had mechlings that you do not know how to care for them?” Ratchet snarled.  “They have a bond with their creators.  You fraggers murdered their Sire, all they have left is their Carrier and the bond with him is strained. They will sicken without him near!”

“Ratchet, get back here and stop bothering them!” Skywarp ordered.

Before Ratchet had the chance to rip his masters a new aft hole the sparklings reacted.  “RATCH!!!” they cried, struggling against the Flyers.

They knew this mech.  He was there with Sire and Carrier when they unfurled.  This mech made pain go away.   When Knock Out touched the pretty red thing that always grew in the center of the camp beneath the cooking pot. This mech made everything better.  His fingers hurt so bad, until ‘Ratch’ used something slick and nice to cool the burning. 

Crosshairs bit the startled Flyer and jumped into Ratchet’s waiting arms.  The mechling latched onto his chest plate, whimpering plaintively.  Knock Out kicked and sobbed, reaching for the familiar mech. 

To the Ratchet’s surprise the other Flyer relinquished his hold on the sparkling.  He carefully placed it in the healer’s arms. “We do not want to hurt them, just to care for them.”

Thundercracker moved to stand behind Ratchet while the frown.   “They cannot be with their Carrier, Ratchet.  He is already sparked by his new mate.  I am not a sparkling expert, but I know that they can form a bond with other mechs, or all orphan sparklings would perish when their creators did.”

Holding the trembling mechlings tightly, he nodded.  That was true.  He and Ironhide had done this with Optimus when his creators were lost.  The sad truth was that bonding with very young sparklings, it was easier if their creators were deactivated.  If the sparklings survived the loss, they would naturally seek a bond with the first mech that offered them care.  “They still feel the bond with Windcharger.  You cannot just force a new bond on them.  He must bring these two into the bond.”

“What is going on here?” Megatron growled as he glared at Ratchet from the doorway with a dazed looking Optimus peeking around him nervously.  He did not like the anger that pulsed from his mate’s field.

“Lord Protector, the sparklings are not well.  This mech was just trying to help us with them,” said Air Raid.

Before Megatron or Starscream, who had walked up behind Optimus could speak, their mate saw Ratchet.  The reaction was dramatic.  He squealed with delight and rushed past Megatron to stand before Ratchet.  He bounced excitedly like a mechling wanting a treat. 

“Optimus?” gasped Prowl.   It was obvious that he had been put into heat, but still this was Optimus.  He was always calm and dignified as befitted a mech of his rank and position.   His strange behavior was disturbing enough, but to see that the symbols had been removed from his shoulders almost made the scout physically ill.

This really was a shock for Swindle.  While he was not well acquainted with Optimus, or a particularly religious mech, the thought of a Shaman of the tribes being reduced to such a state was disgusting.

Rachet could only at him in horror.  He turned to the massive gray warrior, “Monsters! You took his mind!” he snarled accusingly.

Optimus looked at the angry mech with confusion.  Had he done something wrong?  He felt a deep attachment to the bot and did not want the mech to be mad at him.

The red and blue mech dropped to his knees and nuzzled against Ratchet’s abdominal plates, whimpering plaintively. 

Ratchet looked down at him sadly, then glared at the gray Flyer.  “I know Optimus.  He would have submitted.  Why did you do this to him?”

Starscream stepped forward, with a servo on Megatron’s shoulder.  He could feel him mate seething.  “Please, calm yourself, for Optimus’ sake if nothing else.” He moved closer to the healer.  “Ratchet?  That is your designation, correct?”  He recognized the Grounder that his trine mates had claimed.

“Yes,” he answered, barely able to hold his temper.  The sparklings were just calming down.  Now that damned gray warrior had to stomp up and frighten them.    

Optimus was lost in a haze of cyber-pheromones.  He nuzzled Ratchet like an over eager cyber-hound.   He could smell the unique scent of carrying mech.   He liked the scent.  His instincts told him this was a good smell and he needed more of it.

The sparklings both reached down to play with the mech’s long audios.  This was another mech they knew.  He always felt so wonderful.  And he let them, and their older friends, crawl all over him.  He was acting strangely, but they really did not care.  He was tribe, he was family. 

“Optimus did submit to us.  You are right,” said Starscream.  “He should not have been put into heat.  That was… a mistake on our part.”

“Then he did renounce his vows?”  asked Ratchet, looking down at his adopted child sadly.  “No one forced him to interface?”

“No, he was not forced,” Megatron huffed as he approached.  “Not that anything to do with Optimus is your concern.”

“Why do you think he is behaving this way?  My mate and I took in Optimus when he lost his Carrier and Sire.  He was still a mechling.  Still nursing.  Deep in his spark he knows me as his surrogate Carrier. So yes, Optimus is very much my concern.”

“I see,” Starscream conceded as the sleek Praxian approached them cautiously.  By this time Optimus was purring while the two red sparklings petted him.

 Optimus could access no memories or other higher functions.  But he knew the mech holding the two adorable sparkings.  He had a warm safe feeling with this mech. 

And he loved sparklings. 

He was soaking up the affection from the two sparklings when he caught sight of the shuttle and more importantly, the bornlings.  In his hormone addled state, his Carrier protocols kicked in hard.  He kissed each of the sparklings, then stood and made a bee line for the bornlings.

Skyfire could only gape at the smiling mech that walked up to him and began chirping to the bornlings.  They woke with a start.  At first, they were confused by the sound, but they also recognized Optimus.  They liked it when Carrier was close to this mech.  He felt so nice. 

The bornlings scratched on the glass, obviously wanting to be let out.

Seeing how the sparklings reacted to the tall red and blue mech, Skyfire found himself carefully opening the chamber. With a little trill of happiness Optimus lifted them out.  They chirped and cooed at him. 

Optimus chirped and cooed back.

Megatron walked over to stand behind Optimus.  The Grounder felt his field.  He turned, smiling at him, he held up the purring bornlings to show them to his mate. 

The Lord Protector felt his spark constrict, remembering the last time he had seen the tiny bitlets.  For the first time, he could not stop himself from thinking about the pain they had caused the tribe.  He reached out and petted Optimus’s helm.  “Yes, they are very pretty.” 

Skyfire had to fight not to snatch them away from Megatron’s presence.  His very active protector protocols kept warning him that thee big mech was a threat to the sparklings.  And even if they were only just starting to let him touch them, he already thought of them as _his_ sparklings.

“Alright,” Starscream sighed.  “Now that everyone is somewhat calm, I need to have a word with all of you Grounders.  Ratchet, Prowl, Swindle, let me explain exactly what is about to happen.”

“It is simple enough.  You want us to convince some idiots that we are real mechs,” said Ratchet.

Starscream laughed.  “That is exactly why you are here.  Some of the Council and Priesthood believe you do not have true sparks.  I wish that more of your people could speak Vosian.  Unfortunately, the translation patch is not very effective.”

“I can help with that,” said Swindle.  Ion Storm turned to glare, causing the Grounder to shrink away from him.

“I told you to stay quiet.”

“Ion Storm, he has done nothing wrong,” said Starscream.  “If he has a suggestion I am willing to listen.”

“Of course, Wing Lord.”  The Seeker bowed gracefully, then looked down at his reluctant mate nervously.

“Thank you, Honored Wing Lord,” Swindled bowed.  “I have no wish to cause problems for my dear mate.  However, as a traveling merchant who trades often with Seekers, I have access to many things, including a much superior translation program.”

“It would not help for this meeting but going forward having the Grounders be able to speak and understand Vosian better would definitely make things easier on everyone,” noted Starscream. 

“I also have many contacts among the various tribes,” added the Grounder.  He saw the sour looks that both Prowl and Ratchet gave him, but he did not care.  He had a plan to escape and neither of them had ever been exactly friendly to him.  Besides, knowing those two, they had given their submission.  Swindle could do little to help them anyway.  “I could introduce your representatives to the tribal elders.  Let them know that your people are looking for mates.  That would help keep from having a repeat of the… unpleasantness… that occurred at the temple.”

“Does he speak the truth?” Cyclonus asked Prowl quietly so that only the Praxian could hear.

“Swindle does travel extensively and interacts with many of the tribes.  Some do trust him to take important messages,” admitted Prowl, answering in kind.  He did not know what Swindle intended, except that anything he did would be for his own benefit.  Cyclonus nodded, seemingly satisfied.

“Well, if we can bring at least some of the Council and Priests to our side, that would be very helpful,” said Starscream thoughtfully.  “Ion Storm, I would like to speak to you and your mate later, assuming this meeting is not an utter disaster.   Unfortunately, if we cannot convince them otherwise, they will call for you and the sparklings you carry to be killed.”

“Maybe you should have considered that before taking our tribe and sparking us up!” grumbled Ratchet.  He knew Thundercracker and Skywarp were cringing with each word from his intake, but frankly, the medic did not care.

“I honestly underestimated their fanaticism,” admitted Starscream. “I thought that the imminent threat of extinction would make them more open to idea of taking your people as mates.”

 “This should not be too difficult.  When we are in their presence, they will be able to feel our sparks.  They are the same as yours,” said Prowl.

“I fear they were not accept that as proof.  This is a religious tenant for them,” sighed Starscream. “Something they have been taught as a truth given them by Primus.  Their processors will not be so easy to change.”

“Too bad Optimus is acting like a processor damaged cyber-puppy,” grumbled Ratchet.  “As Shaman, he could have argued with these priests of yours on equal terms.”

Starscream shook his helm, looking at his mate nuzzling Ratchet’s belly.  The Grounder was right.  Optimus would have been a great help in this.

“Unfortunately, there is nothing we can do about it now,’” the Wing Lord sighed.  He noted that the smaller of the red mechlings was pulling at Ratchet’s chest plate.  “Ratchet, you had best give the sparklings back to their caregivers, so they can be fed.  Megatron, get Optimus to return the podlings to Skyfire.  Then I want you to hold him in your lap.  We cannot have him acting this way before the Council and they will be here any moment.”

“I would suggest that we take the sparkings out of the room,” suggested Skyfire.   “They might become upset being exposed to so many new mechs, and if they are hostile…”

“Good thought,” nodded Starscream.  “I think all of the Grounders except Optimus should step out.  I want to speak to the Council first.”  If That was another reason he would prefer not to have the Councilors and Priests near Optimus.  He and Megatron’s protector protocols were focused on Optimus.  Either because he was impaired or because he was sparked, they felt extremely protective of him.  He actually feared there might be violence if anyone made what could be interpreted as a threatening move towards their mate.

 

It turns out that holding Optimus was a good idea for several reasons.

Surprisingly, not to keep him from wondering up to them like a lost cyber-pup as they feared. 

As soon as the mechs entered the room, he whimpered and huddled against Megatron’s chest plates, clearly terrified. 

Everybot was surprised that such large mech could make himself so small.

Optimus was huddled nervously against Megatron, sitting on the big mech’s lap.  His bright optics darting over the sea of mostly scowling face plates. 

His processor was functioning on the most basic level.  He did not see a dozen Seekers, a large Shuttle and several Rotary mechs looking at him with curiosity, anger and perhaps some lust.  The sparked mech saw many strangers and felt a dizzying mix of fields directed at him.

His sleek Seeker mate was a short distance away speaking to them.  Optimus wanted to be reassured that these frightening mechs were not going to hurt him.   At least his massive gray one held him protectively.  He was afraid, but his warrior mate felt so confident, the Grounder could only clutch at him and allow himself to be petted.

Unfortunately, the mechs that held his fate in their servos were not impressed.

“This is what you would have carry your heirs, Wing Lord.  Look at the pathetic creature.  While I cannot deny these primitives have some aesthetic appeal, this… beast is not a mech in any sense of the word.  We might as well be mating with cyber-hounds,” snarled Metalhawk.  His optics were full of contempt.

Several of his fellow Councilors agreed.

“That is not true Councilor.  Our mate is acting like this because a heat inducing serum was used to make him more… tractable,” explained Starscream patiently.  He could not lose his temper now.  Even if his Councilors were complete fools.  “Allow me to allay your concerns.  Here are some other mechs from his tribe.”  At his signal Thundercracker, Skywarp and Ratchet stepped out of a doorway to the right of the thrones.  They were followed by Cyclonus and Prowl.  Skyfire, Silverbolt and Air Raid followed more slowly.

“I wish to introduce our mate, Ratchet to the Council.  He is a healer,” announced Thundercracker.  “And he speaks Vosian quite well.”

“As does my mate, Prowl,” added Cyclonus.

For their part, Ratchet and Prowl were both looking at Optimus with sadness.  He peered back at them with unfocused, confused optics as the big gray warrior stroked his back. He did not even want to go to Ratchet or the sparklings when he saw them. 

He was too afraid.

“Prowl, tell these good people your position in the tribe,” ordered Cyclonus, wanting to make a better impression, since he could feel the contempt radiating from many of the mechs present.  Although some of their optics softened when they saw the sparklings.

“I was a scout.  My function was to find suitable game for our hunters, or at times track dangerous beasts that would raid our herds,” he said in very precise Vosian.

Dai Atlas raised an orbital ridge, scrutinizing the sleek Praxian.  “At least this barbarian can actually speak.  Our Wing Lord’s new mate is just a dumb brute.”

“Optimus is fluent in Vosian,” snapped Ratchet.  “Or he was until those two put him into heat and robbed him of his processor.”

“Ratchet!” hissed Thundercracker.

“Unfortunately, he is correct,” admitted Starscream.  “Let me assure you, Dia Atlas, Optimus is a very intelligent and deeply religious mech.  And in a few solar cycles when the serum wears off, he will once again be able to use his intelligence.  I am sorry that this happened, but he will recover his faculties soon.”

“Preposterous,” interrupted Metalhawk.  “True, it is odd that such primitive creatures can speak.  However, I am not convinced that these filthy dirt dwellers are true Children of Primus.  After all, there are several types of metalo-birds that mimic speech.”

Dia Atlas shook his helm as he scrutinized the tribe mechs.  “Primus made all Vosians in his image, with the ability to soar through the air.  These,” he sneered. “ _Grounders_ obviously have no connection to the divine presence.”  Several of the Councilors nodded in agreement.

“Forgive my boldness, but it is not logical to make these pronouncements without evidence.  Optimus is the expert on the sacred texts and would be much better at presenting our case than I,” said Prowl.  “But we all honor the Great Creator Primus and seek to live by his teachings.”

“Yes, the one that cannot speak is an expert.  This is pointless. These beasts know nothing of the sacred words of Primus,” Metalhawk hissed.  “Their inferior processors could never comprehend them.”

 “Big words, Flyer.  You had never even spoke to a Grounder before, let alone been near one,” countered Ratchet.  “You stand across the room, glaring at us like you would a dead cyber-rat.  Come over here and touch our fields.  Then say we are just beasts!” demanded Ratchet.

“Why would I want to be anywhere near a beast.”  Metalhawk snarled at Ratchet.

“Why are you arguing with one?” asked Ratchet.

Metalhawk took a step towards the healer, radiating anger.

Dia Atlas’ massive servo clamped down on the other mech’s shoulder.  “Do not lower yourself, my friend.  These dirt dwellers are not worth the effort.”

“Really?  You lot seem to think that we are inferior because we cannot fly.  Since the Great Creator lives beneath the ground, we of the tribes feel it is our kind that are closer to him.  Besides, you sneer at the way we live in the desert, but if you will recall, it was not always this way.  Remember Iacon, Polihex, Praxis?  Those were Grounder cities that rivaled the sophistication of Vos.   Your ancestors slaughtered ours by the thousands, burn their cities, and drove them into the deep desert expecting them to die.  But instead they adapted, survived and thrived.  And while you boast that only Flyers are true mechs touched by Primus, perhaps you can explain something to me?  If the Great Creator does not claim my people as his children, why are we the ones that can still reproduce?”

Dia Atlas’ intake fell open.  At first Starscream feared he would attack the Grounder for his borderline blasphemy.  Instead, the tall mech just stared at him.  Then he slowly walked closer.  Ratchet stepped back when he reached out towards his abdominal plating.

“I mean no harm,” the Priest told him.  Surprisingly, his own field confirmed this.  He was curious. “Your words are crass, but there is truth in them.  Primus has seen fit to take our ability to carry while your Grounders still can.  I need to feel the podlings.  Touch their fields.”

“Alright,” Ratchet nodded.  “Feel them and the bitlets over there,” he indicated where Skyfire had the tiny bornlings in the chamber and Air Raid and Silverbolt held their nervous burdens. “Touch my field and theirs, then tell me we do not have true sparks.”

The Grounder steeled himself as Dia Atlas ran a servo over Ratchet’s belly.  

Ratchet sighed in relief as he felt the podlings reach out curiously to meet the strong field of the Seeker Priest. 

With a look of shock on his face plate, the big gold and white mech stepped back. His optics turned to the bornlings held by Skyfire. 

The Shuttle stiffened but did not move as the Priest approached.  He gasped as he felt them.  Distinct fields, alive and aware.  They were nothing like those of mech-animals.  “It is true.  They have Primus given sparks, my Lord,” said Skyfire, smiling down at the bitlets.  “My protector protocols activated almost from the moment I took the podlings in.  All you need do is open yourself to them.  You cannot touch their fields and not know that they are true mechs.”

Skyfire opened the chamber top.  The High Priest of Primus carefully ran a finger over the tiny blue helm that strained to see out.  The podling whimpered and ducked inside at the touch of the strange mech. 

“Primus below.  I feel them.  They do have true sparks…”

Stepping away as the bornlings blink their optics at him and chirp quizzically he turned to his fellows.  “My friends, our Wing Lord is right.  The Grounders are Children of Primus.”  He looked at the startled mechs, his optics wide.  “I understand now.   This must be Primus’s plan to reunite his scattered children.”  The mech was shaking slightly, almost giddy with his divine epiphany

Starscream sighed with relief.  He had not expected the Priest to come around so quickly but with him on their side, the Grounders would be safe.

Or so he thought. Until he realized the gold and white mech was not finished.  Dia Atltas’ optics were almost white as he continued to speak.  “We must find all of the Grounder tribes.  It is our sacred duty to bring them to Vos.  We must take them as mates, civilize them.”

“What?” gasped Ratchet and Starscream in unison.

The Priest turned to his fellows.  “Wing Lord Dreadwing made a terrible mistake by making war on the Grounders.  One that we must rectify.  They are our brothers.  We cannot leave them to wallow in the dirt.  We must bring them all to Vos!”

 

To be continued.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Dealing with the aftermath of the meeting.


	13. A Change Of Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dia Atlas is on board with bringing in the Grounders, and that is a good thing. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Stick Sex, Fingering, Dub Con-ish, Religious bigotry, abusive relationship. 
> 
> I do not own Transformers Etc and any mistakes are my own.

_“Wing Lord Dreadwing made a terrible mistake.  One that we must rectify.  The Grounders possess the spark of Primus.  They are our brothers.  We cannot leave them to wallow in the dirt.  We must bring them all to Vos!”_

Ratchet’s intake fell open.  “Wait.  What?”

Thundercracker, moved to stand in front of his mate.  “Please Ratchet, let us handle this.”

 _‘Ratchet perhaps it is best if you do as he says,’_ commed Prowl. _‘This is a very volatile situation.’_

The healer growled but decided to comply.  His words had already caused enough damage.  He had just wanted to keep the Flyers from killing them and their sparklings, not make them want to take more of them.

Swindle just stood back and watched, somewhat concerned about the situation.  This could harm his plans in the long run.  Short term, it would help.  Starscream was obviously an intelligent mech.  He would see that the Flyers need Swindle to interact with the Grounder tribes, which would eventually give him an opportunity to escape. 

However, if the Flyers decided to go after every tribe, there would eventually be no safe place.

He was going to have to do some serious rethinking.  Including considering one thing he really did not want to do.  Onslaught, the Chief Hunter of the largest of the Kaon tribes was attracted to him, but possessive.  Swindle Had avoid them recently because Onslaught had made clear his intention to make the trader his mate.

Swindle left before he had the chance to officially announce his desires.

But he was beginning to think that becoming Onslaught’s mate might be his best option to be free of the abusive Flyer.  He had no doubt that the lusty hunter would gladly take him as mate, even with the podlings he now carried.

That was probably his best option since the tribes of Kaon were more numerous and they had the ancient caverns and mines to fall back to if fighting started.  

While Swindle contemplated how to use this sudden turn of events to his advantage, Starscream gasped, horrified at Dia Altlas’ pronouncement.  It was true that they needed to bring in more Grounders if they were to avoid extinction, but even he cringed at such a reckless, inflammatory statement.

Plans to bring in more Grounders needed to be made carefully.  He was sure that they could entice more Grounders to join them, given time.  If Dia Atlas hijacked his efforts to bring in willing mates and turned it into some sort of Holy Crusade, he had no doubt that it would end the same way as the first encounter. Very badly. 

With many unnecessary deaths.  Like Megatron, he was not finding it easy to be in such close proximity to the bornlings.  The innocent little bitlets brought back very unpleasant memories of what had happened to their carrier and siblings. 

And the fact that he did feel some responsibility for their fate, even if he refused to admit it to anyone.

“While I am glad that you now understand that the Grounders are the Children of Primus, we cannot rush into anything.   They have been living as they do now for many thousands of stellar cycles.  If we try to uproot them, even if our intentions are pure, more deaths will occur.”

 Dia Atlas stopped in his tracks as he let Starscream’s words sink in.  He had read the report sent to him by the researcher Skyfire.  Podlings had died in the confusion and resulting violence of their first meeting.  He had comforted so many grieving creators that lost their sparklings. 

One pair of distraught Shuttles lost all four of their bornlings on the same day cycle.

Looking from the wary younglings clinging to their caregivers to the two bitlets sleeping in the chamber, he shuddered.  These were not just cute mech-animals.  These were Primus’ beloved children.  Such a tragedy must never happen again.  “You are right,” he said thoughtfully.   Then he smiled.  “The retrieval of Primus’ wayward children must be handled with the greatest care so as not to cause our poor barbarian kin harm.  When you are ready to begin contacting the Grounders, one of my priests must go with you.”

“That may not be a good idea,” said Starscream.  Having the priesthood on his side was one thing.  Having them looking over his shoulder and second guessing his every move while negotiating with the tribes was another thing entirely. “We are still learning about the tribes and they exist in a hostile world, meaning of necessity they have evolved a violent society.”  He noticed the look that the Praxian and medic gave him but ignored it.  The Grounders might not like his words, but really, he was trying to keep them all safe.

“Nonsense.  By their own words we know that these mechs honor Primus.  They seek to live by his teachings.  If that is true, surely they would be more willing to listen to his priests then warriors.”

“Just a minute there.  Our people are happy in the desert,” said Ratchet, finally finding his voice. “While it is good that you no longer consider us beasts, all we want is to be free.  There are some in the tribes that would probably like coming here to live, but I can guarantee that the majority of our warriors will not just lay down for you and become carriers.”

“Surely you can see that everything here is the will of Primus?”  The priest sighed, shaking his helm.  “You poor innocent creatures.  I do understand your reluctance.  You have convinced yourselves that you must be happy in that horrid place because you believe you cannot aspire to more.  But you can.  You will come to see that this is for the best.  And once all those in the wilds see the splendor of Vos and all of you fully experience the comforts of civilization, you will understand that this is where you belong,” countered the priest.

Ratchet opened his intake to give the mech a piece of his processor, but a servo suddenly covered it.  He was shocked to see Thundercracker glaring down at him. “Do not antagonize him,” the Seeker hissed.  Skywarp moved in front of him, blocking the priest’s view.  Ratchet just blinked at them in surprise. 

“Please, behave,” pleased Skywarp.  As reckless as Skywarp could be, he did not want to anger the priest.

Ratchet could feel the fear coming from his masters.  Grimly he nodded.   If the somewhat rash Skywarp was nervous he had best be careful.   This priest was powerful and more important, at least to the Grounder’s optics, somewhat unstable.  Maybe it would be best to hold his glossa. 

At least these Seekers no longer wanted to kill them and their podlings.

Cyclonus and Ion Storm each placed a servo on their mate’s arms, just to be sure they understood that their input was best kept to themselves.  Fortunately, seeing the turn of events neither mech felt inclined to interject himself into the situation.

Dia Atlas did not seem to notice anything that was going on around him.  He had already turned his back on the Grounder.  The priest was in his own world. 

Primus had given him a Holy mission. 

The other priests he had brought with him seemed to be convinced.  Talking excitedly between themselves.

However, it was very obvious that not all the Councilors were on board.

Metalhawk and several others watched the proceedings with shock and confusion.

“This cannot be right, Dia Atlas,” gasped the slim Seeker.  “How can these uncouth barbarians be true children of Primus?”   

Another mech, Halcion could only shake his helm.  “You are saying that we should accept these Grounders into our midst? Even if as you assert they have sparks, they are barbarians.  They will murder us in our berths!  I heard about what they did to Nacelle!  And that monster that tore apart the medics that were trying to help him!”

Ratchet still wanted to give these morons a piece of his processor, but Thundercracker and Skywarp were in the process of guiding him to the door.

“Councilor, it is true, there were incidents of violence.  However, they have been wildly exaggerated,” assured Starscream.  “The mech that injured the medics is the sire of these bornlings that Skyfire is caring for.  They had two siblings who died with their carrier.  The Grounder is in pain from the severing of the bond with his mate.   The other mechs that attacked their assigned mates were afraid and lashed out.”  Truthfully, he did not know if that was exactly the case, but he needed to convince the Council the Grounders were not an immanent danger to them.  “Both of those things happened because of a horrible misunderstanding.”

“When we bring in more Grounders, we intend for them to come willingly,” added Megatron, still gently petting the very nervous Optimus.  “There will be no reason for them to fight.  But if you do not wish to have a fertile mate, I am sure that there are many others on the Council ready to accept Grounder mates so that they might sire heirs.”

Just because he did not like wasting time with politicians did not mean that the Lord Protector did not understand them.  He could see the mech’s optics light up as light dawned.  Yes, the last thing he wanted was for his rivals in the Council to have heirs while he did not. 

It was necessary, but still, Megatron felt sorry for whatever poor Grounder got stuck with that idiot.

“I suppose, if they are brought in willingly, they would not be so dangerous,” admitted the Councilor.  His optics went to Optimus.  “You say the serum makes them more tractable?”  He obviously liked the way Optimus clung to Megatron.

“For a short time only.  That is another reason we want to bring them in willingly.  Now, if this matter is settled, I would like to adjourn.  The sparklings need to fuel and recharge, and because of the serum, our mate is very frightened being surrounded by strangers,” Starscream informed them.   

 “That would probably be for the best,” admitted Dia Atlas.  “Although I wish to discuss some things with you after the others have gone, Wing Lord.  Including having the sparklings and sparked mechs brought to the temple soon.  They must receive the blessings of Primus and begin to receive his teachings.”  He paused thoughtfully.  “And Starscream, I would like the opportunity to speak to your mate, once he has regained his faculties.”

“Of course,” the Wing Lord nodded.  Megatron frowned at the thought of Starscream being stuck with Dia Atlas but said nothing.  He did not want to get drawn into that discussion.  And he would find a way to keep those fools away from his mate.  For now, he had permission to leave and he intended to make use of it.  The gray warrior easily lifted Optimus, who held his neck cables tightly and burrowed against his chest plates. 

Megatron rubbed his back, keeping Optimus calm as he quickly exited the room right after Skyfire. The mech was confused and frightened.  He did not like those other Flyers.  Their fields felt bad.  They made his plating crawl.  He was glad his mate was taking him away from them.

The blue and red mech huddled in his mate’s strong arms, hoping they would go back to their den and give each other pleasure.  His mates were both good at that, and he liked it a lot. 

Once they were back in their chambers, Megatron placed Optimus in the berth and nuzzled him.   When other the mech began to relax, he started stroking his sides.  Megatron smile as the sexy Grounder was quick to open his interface panel, obviously wanting to be touched.  He was soon moaning and moving against him.

 Now the Lord Protector just needed to get him distracted enough to take his spike.

The podlings needed transfluids and Optimus needed to get over his fear.

The gray mech smiled as Optimus overloaded again.   He had his helm thrown back, optics shuttered.

Megatron rolled over onto him, gently but firmly holding him down.  Optimus' optics snapped open in surprise.  He whimpered and tried to struggle.  “Shh…” The Lord Protector kissed him.  “Relax.  It will not hurt.”

Carefully, he reached between them and stroked his mate’s array, sliding two fingers into his valve.   A gasp of surprise and arousal escaped those kissable dermas.  “That is right, pretty one, relax.  Our bitlets need transfluids.”

At first Megatron thought he had moved too quickly, but soon Optimus stopped fighting.  The red and blue mech started to tense up when he felt his mate’s spike enter him, but despite his confusion, he was aroused enough that it was not painful.

He looked up at Megatron, optics wide with surprise.  The gray warrior kissed his down turned dermas. “It will be alright,” he assured, slowly moving his spike deeper.   “Only pleasure between us, Optimus.” 

Those lovely optics were still concerned. 

“Please. Do no fear me, Optimus.  Never fear me.  I love you,” said Megatron softly, surprised himself by the truth of it.  He had never said those words to Starscream.  Yes, he loved his mate, but the words were always left unspoken.

Megatron felt the chassis beneath him relax, as if somehow Optimus did understand what was said.  At the very least, the Grounder felt his field.  The warm feeling of belonging that enveloped him.  Smiling, the Lord Protector began to move.

Optimus moaned and clutched at his back struts, arching against him. 

Soon both mech’s overloaded. 

Panting, Megatron eased out and took the ointment from his subspace.  He proceeded to apply to his drowsy companion.  He wanted to make doubly sure that he caused no pain.  He was not going to have Optimus shying away from taking his spike again.

“You are very lucky I realized that Optimus was obviously enjoying that, or I would have kicked your aft,” Starscream informed him from the doorway to the berth room.  “You could easily have made this worse.”

 “But I did not.  He needed to get over his fear of interfacing for the sake of the podlings,” Megatron informed him.

“And the fact that you were becoming impatient to have his valve was not a consideration,” smirked Starscream.

“Granted.  I may have had an ulterior motive, but you cannot deny that I am right.  Optimus needs to be receptive to us for the podlings’ sake.”

“Not the way I would have done it,” chided the Wing Lord.  “But I suppose it needed to be done.”  He sat down on the berth and stroked the purring Grounder’s finials.  Optimus looked up and him and smiled that innocent, beguiling smile that belonged only to this mech.  They would not see it again once he regained his mind.  He would not be this simple creature of instinct who knew only the most basic of concepts anymore. 

Starscream was brought out of his musing when Optimus reached out to him.  Enticingly, he spread his leg struts, making his intentions obvious.  Now that the sexy Grounder knew his mates’ spikes felt good again, he wanted more.

Now would be very good.

Moving over the lovely mech, Starscream smiled. “I cannot say no to you.”

Optimus purred.

 

To be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly more interactions between Seekers and their reluctant mates. Also, Windcharger will get to see his bitlets.


	14. Clearing Up A Few Misconceptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Seeker/Grounder interactions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Religious Extremism, Sticky Sex
> 
> I do not own The Transformers Etc. and any mistakes are my own.

Ratchet kept quiet on the short shuttle ride back to their domicile.   The Seekers did not even speak between themselves, unless they were using coms. 

It was not until they were safely behind closed doors that Thundercracker looked down at him, placing a servo on his shoulder.  “Ratchet, you need to understand that Dia Atlas is not a mech to anger.  He controls the priesthood.  And they are dangerous.”

“Priests can have you arrested for Heresy,” said Skywarp.  “They can send you to prison or end your function.”

“This is insane.  Your priest offline mechs for not agreeing with them?” gasped Ratchet. “And you call us barbarians.”

Thundercracker opened his intake to object, but after a second closed it again.  “I really do not know what to say to that,” he sighed.      

“I just do not understand you Flyers,” said Ratchet.  “Why would you let your priests do such things?  That makes no sense.”

“Your Shamans do not order executions for blasphamy?” asked Skywarp.

“Pit no,” answered Ratchet.  “Shamans are teachers and advisors, not murderers.”

“But we were under the impression that the Shamans ruled your tribes,” admitted Thundercracker.

“Of course not,” Ratchet almost laughed.  “Where did you get that idea?”

“Our scientists have been observing the tribes,” clarified Thundercracker.  “They concluded it was a Theocracy.  During their observations, the Chief Hunter always deferred to the Shaman.”

“Any Chieftain worth his blade will be respectful of the Shaman and ask for Primus’ blessing on hunts and other endeavors.  But the Shamans are advisors, not rulers.”

“I suppose that it is not surprising that our scientists did not get the full picture of your society for observing it from afar for a short time,” Thundercracker conceded.  “We need to speak to Starscream.  This will definitely have a bearing on how we deal with the Grounder tribes.”

 

Bitstream woke with his arms full of squirming, whimpering minibot. 

His little mate was apparently fluxing. 

The Grounder mumbled.  The Seeker quickly realized, to his annoyance, that the mech had reverted to his own incomprehensible language.  The Flyer could not understand a word the little mech said.  

Well, not quite true.  He understood one word amongst the gibberish.  ‘Cliffjumper.’  The name of Windcharger’s deceased mate.

The sobbing minibot had his arms and legs wrapped around him, clinging to him like a baby cyber-monkey. 

With a sigh Bitstream sat up, doing his best to comfort him.

Shifting to lay on his back the Seeker ran a servo over the trembling bot. 

“Wake, my little mate,” he said gently.  Bright blue optics blinked at him.  At first the diminutive Grounder flinched, realizing he was in the arms of the Flyer.  But quickly his processor provided him with context.  

His tribe was defeated and he, like the other survivors, was now the property of the victors.

It was the will of Primus.  And although his dear mate was gone, his sparklings still lived.  They needed him.  As would the podlings already forming in his gestational tank.  He had not feel the podlings yet, be he could already detect the change in his own scent.

He held onto those thoughts as the Seeker stroked his back. 

At least his master seemed to be a kind mech.  Bitstream had been very gentle last night.  Taking great care to be sure that he did not hurt him, but even made him overload several times.  The Seeker seemed to take pleasure in watching him writhe on his spike.

“You OK, little mate?” asked the Seeker.

He nodded.  “OK.” Windcharger could not help but notice the mech avoided using his name.

“Come on, you need to refuel.”  Bitstream lifted him up and carried the little mech to the energon dispenser.  He felt a touch of irritation in the mech’s field, but he was going to have to get used to being carried.  Those tiny leg struts of his could not keep up with the tall Seeker.

He set his mate on the edge of the counter when he noticed that he had a message waiting. 

Bitstream handed his mate a cube then hit the button to listen.  ‘Bitstream, this is Air Raid.  I need to speak to you on an important matter.  The sparklings are not thriving and we are told that they need contact with their Carrier.  We need to see if we can arrange a time for them to be together.’

The Seeker blinked, very surprised to hear this.  Windcharger had gasped, hearing that there was something wrong with his bitlets.  But could not suppress a squeal when he picked out the most important part.  That he would get to see his sparklings!

Despite himself the Seeker was not exactly pleased to have his mate spending too much time with those sparklings.  The little Grounder needed to concentrate on the podlings Bitstream had sired.

 

A short time later, the Seeker could feel the excitement in his little mate’s field as they approached Air Raid and Silverbolt’s dwelling.

The Grounder hugged him more tightly as the door opened. 

Bitstream had intended to speak to the other Seekers.  While not friends they were well acquainted, and he felt he would not offend if he suggested setting up boundaries.  Yes, he wanted to help the bitlets, but they needed to be reasonable about how much time he and his mate would spend here. 

And then the door opened.

Air Raid held Crosshairs against his chest plate.  The sparkling lay listlessly, sad optics unfocused, until he felt his Carrier.  Big blue optics brightened.  He mewed and pushed against the Seeker.  Fortunately, the mech was expecting this type of reaction, so he did not drop the suddenly lively bitlet.

Crosshairs chirped happily as he was put into his Carriers arms. 

Knock Out was in fitful recharge. 

Windcharger gasped when he touched his bitlet’s weak field and saw how pale the tiny sparkling was.  “Give Knock Out! Bitlet need me!”  Not taking offense to what some might consider rude behavior, Silverbolt had no reaction save to carefully place the limp sparkling into the minibot’s waiting arms.   

Bitstream carefully shift his mate.  The Grounders were relatively small.  Still, holding all of them was a bit awkward.

“You may set your mate down on the couch if you like, Bitstream.  I think it will be more comfortable,” offered Silverbolt.

The Seeker nodded and carefully put his mate down.  Happily, Windcharger arranged the sparklings into a more comfortable position.  The purring bitlets burrowed against their Carrier’s chest plates, basking in the feel of that beloved spark. 

Knock Out’s little fingers flexed over his carrier’s windshield.

The Grounder wept as the bitlets nuzzled his chest plates.  Even Knock Out became more alert and began to pull on the seams of his chest plates and whimper.  They wanted to nurse, but he could not fill his pouches.  

Very upset, he looked up at the Seekers.  “Bitlets need fuel.  Me no make now.”

“It is alright, we have some in cubes,” Air Raid took out two cubes with modified tips.  Crosshairs grabbed one, Knock Out just looked at him.  The Seeker placed it into his servos.  Windcharger helped the weakened sparkling hold it to nurse.

His weakness was concerning, but the new caregivers were heartened by the change in the little red mechling.  He was being more active than he had in several day cycles.

Windcharger’s field was broadcasting happiness.

He could not help it.  Even though Bitstream had explained that his sparklings were staying here with their new caregivers, he would be able to spend time with them. 

However, as far as Bitstream was concern Windcharger needed to keep his focus on the podlings he was carrying. 

Even so, Windcharger would be allowed to spend time with his precious bitlets.  He could not help being happy. 

The sparklings nursed contentedly, clinging to their carrier.

“All touch,” said Windcharger, surprising the Seekers.  He looked up at them.  “Need bond so sparklings be strong. Come closer.”

The Grounder did not want to share his mechling’s bond, but he knew he had no choice.   For them to have a chance to grow and thrive, he must do this.

They reached out, running their servos over the minibot’s back and shoulders.  Bitstream felt a pang of jealousy as his mate shuttered his optics and purred.  But he could not really be angry when the tiny sparklings began to purr.  Something deep inside him seemed to stir, telling him that making the sparklings happy was a very good thing.

“Mate,” said Windcharger suddenly, “Join us?  All help bitlets?”  The Seeker leaned down and kissed the back of his helm.  He was pleased when all three invited him to join them. 

The feeling stirring inside him pulsed.  The thought of bonding with the mechlings was very pleasant.  Bitstream felt a growing sense of belonging as he knelt before the little red forms.   Even the sparklings reached out with their fields.   The Seeker had not experienced anything like it since he had moved out of his creators’ home.

Bitstream leaned in and kissed his mate.   The minibot smile contentedly.

The mechlings relaxed and soon fell into recharge.  Both of their fields were already noticeably stronger. 

After a few moments Bitstream realized that his mate had shuttered his optics and was also going into recharge.

 The three Flyers looked at one another. 

“So, what should we do now?” asked Air Raid, continuing to gently pet Windcharger.

Silverbolt looked to Bitstream.  “They look so peaceful.  But they need more contact.  If you are agreeable, we can take them to our berth.  I think we can all fit, if we are careful.”

“All of us sharing a birth?”  Bitstream raised an optic ridge considered this a moment.  “Just how far do you want to take this?”

“Oh…” Silverbolt realized what he meant.  “I did not… Uh…”

“We all need to bond.  Maybe… um, we should consider interfacing.  I mean, it will help the bitlets?” suggested Air Raid, hesitantly.

Windcharger made a little satisfied noise and held his precious mechlings a little tighter.

Silverbolt and Bitstream looked at one another thoughtfully.  It was Silverbolt who spoke for them both.  “We can just cuddle with them for now.  Let’s not push things.  OK?”

“I’m willing to cuddle,” said Bitstream. “I want to help the bitlets, if only for my mate’s sake.  But I am not too sure about going any further.”

Carefully he lifted all three of the small Grounders.  The bitlets clamped onto their carrier more tightly, but otherwise they did not stir.

The berth was a little crowded. 

They ended up with Air Raid and Bitstream on either side of the deeply recharging Grounders.  Silverbolt spooked behind his mate, with a servo rubbing the smaller bitlet’s back.

All the Seekers were just enjoying the contentment coming from the little Grounders.

Bitstream found himself smiling.  Although he was not ready to make a bond with the other two Seekers, he found himself thinking that he could get used to this closeness.

 

Prowl could feel the relief in Cyclonus as they walked into his home.  “Thank you for staying quiet,” said the Seeker as he flung himself down into a large comfortable chair.

“I believed doing so was best course of action.  This Dia Atlas appears to be a mech of intense, possibly dangerous passions. Calling attention to myself or taking the chance of accidentally offending him seemed to carry an unacceptable risk.”

Chuckling, Cyclonus patting his thigh.  Prowl walked over to stand before him.  The Seeker lifted the smaller mech into his arms.  Lifting Prowl so that his legs had to encircle the larger mech’s waist.  “I am very lucky to have been given you as my mate, Prowl.”

The Praxian said nothing, just held on as his master began to lick his neck cables.  He leaned his helm back, knowing what was expected.  Being sparked, his chassis reacted to the stimulation heating quickly.

Biting his glossa so he would not accidentally call the wrong name, Prowl opened his panel.    Cyclonus decided that the chair was less than optimal for interfacing.  He stood and quickly moved to a more suitable location.  He lay Prowl down on the berth.  The Seeker smirked as he teased the Grounders anterior nodes, chuckling at his mate’s whimper.

Prowl clutched at the mesh as overload struck.  The Grounder moaned as Cyclonus moved over him.  By then he was more than ready for the Seeker’s spike. 

Large servos played with his door wings.  The Grounder writhed beneath the Seeker.   Unable to resist his lovely mate, Cyclonus let out a loud growl as he pressed in to the hilt. 

“You feel so good,” he panted, thrusting deep.

Prowl cried out with his second overload.

The Seeker rolled over, drawing his mate closer.  He stroked Prowl’s back struts, feeling the Praxian setting over him.  Cyclonus liked the feel of the other mech against his frame.

He felt a little ripple in Prowl’s field, but it was not enough to cause any reaction from him.  He simply thought it an aftershock of their pleasure.

It was more than that.

_‘Prowler?’_

_‘Jazz? Is something wrong?_ ’ Prowl sent, careful to keep his field even.

_‘I…  Just miss you,’_

_‘Beloved,’_ Prowl sighed, letting his mate feel his love.  _‘I miss you too.’_  

After a moment he continued. _‘I have news.’_  He sent a quick summery of the meeting with the Council and Priests.  He felt relief and just a little happiness that some of poor Hot Rod’s bitlets survived.  Although the pathetic state of their Shaman and Windcharger’s little ones concerned him greatly. 

As did Dia Altas.

_‘Scary guy,’_ sent Jazz.  _‘Wish I could have seen Ratchet rip him a new aft hole.”  He hesitated.  “You think he’ll try to take more of us?’_

_‘I fear so.  This, Starscream’ may be the Wing Lord and presumed leader of Vos, but the Seeker Priests are apparently extremely powerful,’_ Prowl informed him. 

_‘Wish there was something we could do.’_   Jazz could not hide how nervous this fanatical Flyer made him.

_‘Sadly, under present circumstances, we have few options open to us,’_ admitted Prowl. 

While the Grounders were very religious, he had never seen or felt anything like the fervor rolling off Dia Atlas.  _‘I can council my master.  Encourage him to persuade his superiors to move slowly.  The Wing Lord appears to be less enthusiastic in bringing our people in than his priest.  I believe Starscream was very much affected by the deaths they caused.  He does not want another massacre.’_

_‘That’s something at least,’_ Jazz sighed.

Prowl suddenly felt a sharp, quick pang of fear. _‘Jazz?’_

_‘Sorry, he… he wants me.’_

Prowl did not need any further explanation as their link shut down.  Still, he could not stop a pang of concern from entering his field.

“Is something wrong?” asked Cyclonus.

“Nothing,” replied Prowl, shuttering his optics. 

“Just relax,” said the Seeker.  “You are mine, Prowl.  I will care for you.”

“Yes, master.”

Cyclonus frowned when he realized what his mate had said but did not correct him.  The Grounder was still nervous, but he would come to understand the situation eventually.

What he did not know was that as Prowl was concerned, he understood perfectly.

 

To be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Optimus comes out of heat.


	15. Day of Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus has come out of heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sticky Sex. Chemical Enhanced Sex, Manipulation
> 
> I do not own The Transformers Etc and any mistakes are my own

It is said that eventually all good things must come to an end. 

With a touch of sadness, Starscream realized that their time with Optimus as a sweet cuddly pet had come to an end when he woke to find that Optimus was missing from their berth. 

The Grounder had been snuggled contentedly between them after their last round of interfacing when the three of them curled up together to recharge.   

Once Megatron had demonstrated to Optimus that interfacing with them would not be painful, he was very eager to take their spikes.  

This made both the Wing Lord and his Protector very happy mechs.

Still, Starscream was not really surprised to find him missing.  It had been almost four day cycles since Optimus was put into heat. Time enough for the effects to wear off.

Being careful not to wake Megatron, he slipped out of the berth and quickly began searching their quarters. 

Starscream was a little surprised that he found Optimus almost immediately.  The Grounder was not hiding.  This was not an attempt to escape or harm himself.  The Seeker had briefly feared the later might be a possibility.

The sleek mech was kneeling at the south end of the room.   The same place where he had removed the symbols of Primus from his chassis.   The same place where he had renounced his vows.

His broad shoulders were slumped, arms folded across his chest, hugging himself tightly.

As he moved closer, Starscream heard a soft, muffled sound that made his spark clench.

Optimus was sobbing.  

As he approached the distraught mech, his servo reached out before he realized that Optimus would likely not want his touch.

The Wing Lord was surprised when the bowed helm did not flinch as his servo began to stroke it.   Optimus did not lean into the touch or purr as he had while in heat, but neither did he shy away from it. 

“Do not be afraid,” Starscream said gently as he continued to stroke the Grounder.  “Megatron… he should not have drugged you.  You are our mate now.  I am sorry things happened the way they did, but please believe that you will be safe and cared for.  As will the podlings you carry.”

Optimus swallowed, obviously working to compose himself.  “Will they?  I am not a fool.  You and your mate, your people, want winged bornlings.  What of the wingless ones?  Will they be slaves?  Will they even be allowed to live?”

“What?” Starscream gasped.  At first he was shocked, but then the Seeker admitted to himself that the Grounder’s fears were hardly unreasonable under the circumstances. “Optimus, please believe me.  All sparklings, no matter if they have wings or not are precious to us.  They will be free citizens of Vos.” 

Optimus relaxed slightly and nodded.  His master’s field was open, he spoke the truth.  Still the Grounder turned away with a shudder. 

“What have you done to me?”

“I am sorry about that.  I fear Megatron can be impatient and somewhat impulsive.  The serum he used was created while we were attempting to cure our inability to conceive.   It put you into heat.  According to the palace physician you are carrying.  From the scans Pharma believes there are three or four podlings.”

“I expected to be sparked, but why does my chassis burn with need?” Optimus shuddered, optics downcast.  He still had not looked at Starscream.  The Seeker did not have to ask why Optimus was concerned.  He could smell the cyber-pheromones.  Not as strong as when he was first put into heat, but still arousing. 

That and he noticed that the Grounder had copious amounts of lubricant dripping freely down his thighs and pooling beneath him on the floor.  

Of course, he was confused and frightened by this.  The mech had been a virgin when they claimed him. 

Considering what little he did know of Optimus, he doubted that the former Shaman had ever even been aroused before.  For his frame to be so utterly out of control must be terrifying to him.

Starscream continued to stroke those long, touchable audios. “It is a side effect of the serum.  Because the podlings need transfluids to survive, any sparked mech has an increased interface drive.  The serum magnifies that desire.”

“You seem upset, Optimus,” noted Megatron as he stepped into the room.  “Why?  I recall your words as you bared your array.  You swore before Primus that you belong to us, to do with as we will.  Were those just words?”

Optimus looked back a Megatron.  His vents hitched, and he had to make an effort to control his almost violent trembling as desire pulsed through his frame at the sight of the massive gray mech.  

Starscream now understood why the Grounder had not looked at him as they spoke.

“By right of conquest I am yours.  I will not fight you.  I just did not understand what was happening to my chassis.”

“Yes, I have been told that your frame would burn with need,” Megatron’s engine rumbled as he moved closer.

Optimus whimpered as the gray mech knelt beside him and eased him onto his back.  More lubricant escaped his closed panel. His engine revved at the Flyer’s touch. “Despite what you may think now, Starscream and I are not cruel.  We gave you this need.  We will satisfy it,” assured the gray mech.  The Grounder’s valve cover snapped open as Megatron moved between his leg struts.

Starscream felt the heat rise in his own array as he watched his mate enter that tight valve and pounded the mech beneath him. 

Optimus never made a sound, but the sleek frame moved with Megatron, straining to be closer.   

In a way his silence was almost disappointing.  When in heat Optimus had been very vocal in his pleasure. This time, the red and blue mech buried his face against the Flyer’s neck cables, holding onto him as if the Lord Protector were a lifeline.  

Megatron held him just as tightly, his movements as he took the Grounder were almost frantic.  

As if he were claiming him again.

Starscream could feel his mate’s happiness at being buried deep within the trembling Grounder.   The Seeker still wondered sometimes if he should feel jealous.  Strangely, that particular emotion did not stir. 

He supposed he should have expected it.   His sire protocols were active and had latched onto Optimus as his sparked, submissive mate.

Starscream felt protective. 

And extremely aroused.

He watched them, his own array heating with every thrust.   By the time Megatron rose, panting and sated, the Seeker’s spike was in his servo.  With a growl, Starscream pounced on the very willing Grounder. 

He could not have done otherwise.

Even after being thoroughly fragged by the massive Lord Protector, Optimus eagerly pulled the Seeker as close as their chassis could go.  His field was pulsing wildly with need.

Optimus wrapped his arms around his neck and leg struts around the Seeker’s slim waist as Starscream sheathed his painfully erect spike.

“More,” gasped Optimus, clinging to him just as tightly as he had Megatron.  “Please, Starscream, need more.”  Hearing his designation spoken by that deep, sexy voice sent his already intense arousal through the roof.

“I will give you what you need, Sweet Spark,” assured Starscream huskily as he nuzzled long, sleek finials. 

 

Having been carried to the berth room by his mates, Optimus recharged for a long time after that intense interface session.  When he finally woke, Megatron was there beside him. 

Once he saw that he was beginning to stir, the Lord Protector pulled the slightly groggy Grounder into his lap and nuzzled his neck cables.  He felt a pang of, not quite panic from the red and blue mech.  Optimus’s optics darted around nervously.

The Lord Protector quickly realized that he was searching for his other mate.

“Starscream was called to yet another meeting with his Council.”  Apparently Dia Atlas had some thoughts on how to approach the Grounder tribes that he simply could not wait to impart. 

The Wing Lord had not been happy.  He wanted to be there for Optimus.  Obviously, their new mate needed closeness and reassurance.  (And lots of interfacing.) That was why Megatron had no problem convincing Starscream to allow him to remain.

Stroking the Grounder’s back soothingly Megatron began to speak. “It is alright.  He will be home soon.  While we wait, I thought we could talk.  I would like you to tell me of the Ritual of Submission.”  This was something he was very curious about.  Besides, best to keep Optimus busy so that he would not think about the fact that one of his mates was not there.

Optimus nodded.  “What would you like to know?”

“How did it come about?  I have been told that kidnaping is a common way to claim a mate, but for one tribe to subjugate another, does this happen often?”

The Grounder shook his helm.  “Neither of those are common practices.  How could our society function if we went around constantly kidnapping one another?  One mech claiming another is the last resort when courting mechs cannot decide which of them would be the provider and who would carry their podlings.  With the blessing of their Elders and Chieftain they hunt one another.  The one that succeeds will be the provider.  A mech deciding to take a bot who had not consented to courting, or a stranger is extremely rare.  Inevitably it is a spur of the moment decision, made in the heat of passion.  In most tribes taking an unwilling mech under your tent is… frowned upon.   The interactions between them would be closely monitored by the tribe’s Chieftain, Elders, Shaman and Healer to be sure that the captive mech is not abused and that the claimer and claimed can eventually come to an understanding.  Surprisingly, according to those I have counseled, they usually can.  If things become, unpleasant, the mech can be removed from the custody of the one attempting to claim him.”

“Really?” Starscream, who had been standing in the doorway listening, was shocked.  “I need to talk to Skyfire.  My trine just informed me that our scientists apparently made many incorrect assumptions about your people.  Thundercracker told me their mate said Shamans are not the leaders of your tribes as they believed.”

“No, we are not,” he said softly.  “I was an advisor and confidant.  Ultra Magnus was our Chieftain.”

“Then why did he obey you and stand down when he wanted to force me to leave?” asked the Seeker.

“He did not obey me,” answered Optimus.  “I sought only to council him.  Magnus reacted with hostility at your approach because the last time we were visited by Seekers, one of them became somewhat inebriated and tried to drag Hot Rod to his tent.”

“I can see how he would be leery after someone tried to take his mate,” admitted Starscream.

Optimus shook his helm.  “They were not yet bonded at the time.   Hot Rod was not of age.  That Flyer barely escaped with his function.  So when you arrived I interceded to prevent violence...”

Optimus bowed his helm. 

Starscream could feel the sadness coming from Optimus, obviously reliving how badly his attempt failed.

Megatron had to work to keep the smugness out of his field so as not to upset Optimus more.  He knew the blue and white mech was strong but felt some pride in having defeated the leader of the tribe.

Starscream frowned.  He could feel his mate’s smug thoughts.  Megatron shrugged.  He could not help it.  He had bested a worthy adversary.  The Wing Lord sighed and decided to change the subject.  “Optimus, you said that Grounder tribes rarely take others captive?”

“It is almost unheard of.  To my knowledge, no tribe has been decimated and claimed for over fifty stellar cycles.”

Megatron raised an orbital ridge.  “I spoke to a number of Seeker merchants that deal with your tribes.  They seem to think kidnapping was the most common way your people chose mates.”

“Not many of the traders from Vos were fluent in our language, this idea may come from miscommunication.  Or the nature of mechs.  I have found they do enjoy salacious stories,” noted Optimus.

“It seems we have much to learn about your people,” said Megatron with a frown.  “Tell me then, if the claiming of a tribe is rare, how did the Ritual of Submission begin?”

“According to the stories passed down to me, the ritual itself came about because a bandit leader named Nemesis desired a Shaman of one of the Praxians tribes.  He was called Smokescreen.  It was said he was very beautiful and had many admirers.  The bandit tried to woo him, but Smokescreen was devout.  He refused Nemesis’ advances as he did every other mech that tried to persuade him to renounce his vows.  He chose to keep his purity and serve Primus.”

Optimus sighed. “Enraged by his rejection, Nemesis attacked the tribe.  His mechs killed many of the warriors and took the rest of the tribe as captives.  Dragging Smokescreen before the frightened remnants of his tribe, Nemesis then gave him a choice.  Keep his vows and watch the others die or give himself to his captor and they would take the survivors as mates.”

Shuttering his optics with a much too recent memory, Optimus continued.  “With a sense of calm, Smokescreen knelt and prayed to Primus.  Knowing what he had to do, he removed the symbols of Primus from his frame, renounced his vows and spoke the words that have become ritual.  Smokescreen believed that all things that come to pass are the will of Primus and that his fate was ordained.  It is said that by his submission he eventually persuaded Nemesis to repent his evil ways.  Although he was still a pariah for his past deeds, his many sparklings borne to Smokescreen were welcomed into the tribes.”

“Interesting, although I do wonder why Nemesis did not simply take him?” Megatron said thoughtfully.

“Nemesis was a bandit, but he still believed in Primus.  To take the virginity of a Shaman pledged to the Creator would be a great affront.  He would be cast out of the tribes as a Blasphemer.  A mech that would commit such a vile act would, upon his death, be cast into the Pit.  He would forever be denied the love and warmth of Primus.”

A clawed finger tipped up the Grounder’s chin.  “That is why you renounced your vows, Optimus?  To save Starscream and I from eternal damnation.”

“I felt the truth of Starscream’s words.  That it was not your intent to destroy my tribe. You are misguided, but I do not believe either of you are evil or deserving of such a terrible punishment,” said Optimus.

The Lord Protector almost laughed, even as he kissed those lovely lip plates.

It seemed silly to a civilized mech that anyone could believe in such a thing.  But he felt flattered that Optimus would give up so much to protect he and his mate from divine retribution.

“You truly believe that all things happen according to the will of Primus,” noted Megatron.

“Yes.”  Optimus nodded.  “I do not presume to understand the Great Creator’s plan, but I trust that in the end, he loves us and so I leave my fate in his servos.”

“And your people, they also believe as you do?” asked Megatron with a strangely predatory look in his optics.

“There are some doubters, of course,” admitted the former Shaman.  “But most of my people are very fervent in their belief in Primus and desire to live according to his teachings.”

“Tell me, in the Ritual of Submission, do the conquerors have formal words as well?” asked Megatron.

Optimus nodded and began to speak.  “‘Primus, the Great Creator has given my tribe victory.  He has delivered your tribe to us.  By the law of the Badlands and by right of conquest, your tribe is no more.  All that you have, all that you are, belongs to us.  Your function is ours, to end or spare.  Your frames are ours to use as we will.’” 

Optimus looked at Megatron, there was sadness and more than a little apprehension in his optics.  “Are you going to claim another tribe?”

“No, Optimus, we will not,” said Starscream firmly.  His slightly disapproving optics were fixed on Megatron.  “And let me assure you, we had no intention of doing so, even before hearing what you just told us.   Eventually, we do intend to try and persuade other Grounders to join with us willingly, but we will not use force.”

It had taken some time to calm Dia Atlas’ religious fervor.  It was not that the priest wanted to cause harm.  His spark was in the right place.  However, he needed to understand that the Grounders would not simply accept that coming to Vos was the will of Primus.   It would take time to gain their trust.

“Actually, I do have something in mind.  I hoped to find a way to deal with a mech of your tribe that refuses to yield to us,” admitted Megatron.

“This is irrelevant,” countered Starscream with annoyance.  Seeing the look of concern on Optimus’ face plate he explained the situation.  “Ultra Magnus is still in stasis.  He seriously injured one of the medics that were trying to repair him.   It is feared even if he was put into heat, once he came out of it he would attack his new mate, or harm himself.”

“I believe the rest of my tribe will eventually accept what has happened.  I do still hope that one day we will understand why Primus chose this course.  Perhaps the podlings we now carry will bring all the children of Primus together in love instead of hate.  But Ultra Magnus has nothing left to live for.  He has lost his mate and podlings, and, knowing him as I do, I am sure he feels he has failed us all.  He wants only to join his family in the Well.”

“But not all of the bornlings died,” said Starscream.  At first, he was surprised that Optimus did not remember the podlings.  Then he realized that when Optimus had seen them, played with them, it was while he was still in heat.  Of course, he had no memory of the event.  “Two of them survived and are in the care of one of my mechs.”

Optimus looked surprised, then thoughtful.  “To feel the bond with his mate break, know that two of his little ones are gone. Magnus might choose death,” Optimus said sadly.   “Still, the fact that any of his sparklings survived could be enough to give him the will to live.  But only if you will allow him to care for them.   If you will not, Ultra Magnus will eventually find a way to end his function.  You will not be able to stop him, and it would be cruel beyond measure to try.”

Megatron kissed the Grounder’s helm.  “Thank you, my beautiful one.  I believe you have given us what we need to bring your tribemate into the fold.”

Optimus looked at him with confusion and concern. He did not like where this was going at all.

Starscream’s optics narrowed. _‘What are you planning Megatron?’_

The Lord Protector smiled.  _‘To tame Ultra Magnus.’_

 

To be continued.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Will Ultra Magnus submit.


	16. Claiming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fate of Ultra Magnus is decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Manipulation, Chemically Enhanced Sex
> 
> I do not own The Transformers Etc. and any mistakes are my own.

The last thing Ultra Magnus remembered was being beaten until he lost consciousness.  When awareness returned, he had expected to be standing before the Great Creator.  Instead, he found himself bound servos and peds.  There was also a collar around his neck cables.  It was connected to a thick energon chain looped through a ring on a magnetic weight that had been attached to the floor.  

This kept him on his knees.  He could do nothing except helplessly await whatever horrors the Flyers had in store for him.

There were mechs nearby, just out of his line of sight.  He could hear them speaking softly together.  After several moments of straining to hear them, he caught the sound of heavy peds moving closer. 

Two massive Flyers approached.  When they came near, his spark froze when he saw the smiling face plate of the malevolent gray warrior who had defeated him.

 

Megatron looked down at the snarling face plate of Ultra Magnus.  In the Lord Protector’s optics, he resembled a cornered grid-wolf.  The Grounder’s frame radiated defiance, but the Flyer just smiled.  He felt confident that his plan would work.

Optimus had given them the words of the ritual, and unknowingly, the means to bend his chieftain to their will.  Even with the new revelations about the society of the Grounders, Megatron knew that this was what they must do.

Ultra Magnus would submit.

The Lord Protector could not allow any other outcome.  Although, he was still unhappy that he would not be the one to claim the Grounder tribe’s leader.

He and Starscream could easily provide transfluids for both Ultra Magnus and Optimus.  They were virile mechs.  But that was a moot point.  His Wing Lord was adamant.  “Optimus is our mate.  He will need us both.  We cannot divide our attention between two sparked mechs. I believe that your idea could work.  However, we need to find another mech to claim Ultra Magnus.  Someone who can be completely devoted to caring for both he and his bornlings.”

Reluctantly, Megatron decided to give the Grounder to Skyfire.  According to Optimus, the one thing that would get through to Ultra Magnus was his bornlings and the Shuttle was already developing a bond with them.

Not that Skyfire was ready to jump in and take the mech as his own. 

“Is it truly necessary for me to force his submission, my Lord?  Can we not give him his bornlings and… And just release him?”  He did not want to relinquish the bitlets.  The Shuttle already loved them and was beginning to think of them as his own.  But he was willing to let them go so that they could be with their surviving parent. 

 “Really?  Shall we ask him nicely not to tell every Grounder in the fragging wastelands that we slaughtered nearly half his tribe’s warrirors?  I am sure he would carefully explain to them that it was all a big misunderstanding and that we did not intentionally kill his mate and other bornlings.”  The Shuttle seemed to shrink under his gaze.  “We cannot do that Skyfire.  If the tribes find out what happened at the Temple they would butcher Seekers on sight.” Megatron rumbled.   

The Shuttle nodded sadly.  “You are right.  Under the circumstance releasing him is not an option.  But surely there is some alternative to subjugating and…  and raping him?”

“It is not rape in their optics,” assured Megatron.  “It was not our intension, but we have conquered their tribe.   Under the circumstances, taking the tribe mechs as mates is Grounder law and tradition.  It is our duty to take responsibility for them.  Ultra Magnus is ours now.  There is no other option.  He needs to have a mate to care for him and the bitlets.  You have begun to bond with the bornlings.  That makes you the obvious choice.”

“But to force him…”

Megatron held up a servo.  “This is the only chance that Ultra Magnus has.  No one else will take him.  If you will not be his mate, he will eventually die.” 

That was true.  Starscream intended to keep the dangerous mech in stasis until they found a suitable mate.  Which was very unlikely since neither Megatron nor Astrotrain could claim him.  The mech’s violent reputation had scared off anyone else that might have thought about claiming him.  And that would condemn him to eventual deactivation. 

If a bot was kept in stasis for too long, his spark would begin to fade.

“No!” gasped Skyfire.  “He does not deserve such a fate.”

“Then you must accept this burden.  And as I explained, you need not use force.  If you offer Ultra Magnus the chance to be reunited with his bitlets he will submit willingly.”

The Shuttle was still a little uneasy but admitted that there really was no other choice. “I will take him as my mate.”

 

The Lord Protector looked down into the rage filled optics.  “Ultra Magnus, you are defeated.  Primus, the Great Creator has given my tribe victory.  He has delivered your tribe to us.  By the law of the Badlands and by right of conquest, your tribe is no more.  All that you have, all that you are, belongs to us.  Your function is ours, to end or spare.  Your frame is ours to use as we please.”

Magnus blinked at him, probably surprised that the gray mech knew those words.  The blue and white Grounder’s field was pulled tight, but Megatron could see the fury behind the bright blue optics.  “As leader of the victorious tribe, I give you to Skyfire.  He is now your mate.”  He indicated the massive shuttle who moved to stand beside him.    

It was likely that the actual leader of the conquerors should be the one to give this speech, but while Megatron was not technically the Lord of Vos, Ultra Magnus would not understand the distinction between Wing Lord and Lord Protector.  What he did know is that Megatron had defeated him.  He would consider this mech as a fellow Chieftain and powerful warrior.  He was the one that the Grounder would grudgingly respect and be more likely to obey.   “You will submit to him in all ways and carry his podlings.”

Having made Ultra Magnus aware of his place, Megatron turned and left.   It would be up to Skyfire to make Ultra Magnus submit.  He hoped the soft sparked scientist was up to the challenge.

 

The Shuttle took several deep vents as the door closed, leaving him alone with the growling mech.  This is what he had to do to keep this Ultra Magnus alive and give the two little podlings one of their creators back.

He was saddened, and more than a little disgusted, but forced himself to do what he must. 

Dark blue optics glared defiantly as the massive Shuttle approached.

“You belong to me, Ultra Magnus,” Skyfire used his best command voice.  His field projected calm authority. 

The Grounder looked up at him.  Skyfire shuddered as those blue optics met his.  

To his surprise as he watched, the rage slowly drained from them, along with any semblance of life.  Ultra Magnus slumped before him dejectedly.

“Take another to berth, Winged One.  You will get no clutch from me.  I have failed my tribe.  Failed everyone,” the mech said softly, shocking Skyfire.  The Grounder obviously knew Vosian.  He spoke it perfectly, with just a trace of an odd accent.  He simply had not bothered to speak it before.  “My bondmate and bornlings are with Primus.  If you have any mercy or honor, send me to join them.”

Getting over his initial surprise, the Shuttle looked down at the grieving mech.  “Not all of your bornlings are with Primus.  Two survive.”

“What?” gasped Ultra Magnus, shaking his helm in disbelief.  He could not feel them.  But, the pain in his spark left by the severing of his bond to Hot Rod was overwhelming.  Was that keeping him from sensing them?  “Two of my bornlings live? Where are they?  Please, please, let me see them!”

Skyfire quickly went to his living area and leaned over a low table where the small support chamber sat.  The two tiny bornlings chirped and scratched unhappily at the glass as he approached.   They did not like being left alone in this small boring place. 

They wanted him to sing for them.

The noise that was wrenched from Ultra Magnus’ vocalizer at the sight of his surviving bitlets was spark breaking.  The desperate Grounder jerked so hard on the collar around his neck that it cut into the cables.  A thin stream of energon flowed down his chest plate, but he did not even notice.

And when the little ones’ optics found their sire they squealed happily and tried to go to him.   Their tiny servos banged feebly against the barrier that separated them from their surviving creator. 

“Calm yourself, Ultra Magnus.  You can see they are safe,” Skyfire assured.

The Shuttle set the container down before the desperate mech.  He opened the top of the chamber and carefully lifted the little ones.  

He was very glad that the mechlings had finally allowed him to hold them without shrieking.

Cradling a bornling in each of his massive servos Skyfire moved closer to the bound warrior.  The mechlings were swallowed up in his cupped servos.  Ultra Magnus strained against the energon chains to get to his bitlets, but they would not break.

The shuttle drew himself to his full height.  “By the laws of the Badlands I claim them as my own.  As I claim you, Ultra Magnus.  I have fueled these bornlings from my lines and will continue to do so.  Your pouches have been disabled for now.  I cannot allow you to nurse them since you will soon be sparked.   But if you submit to me, you may take care of them in all other ways.”

Blue optics blinked at the Flyer.   Ultra Magnus wanted to snatch his bitlets from the massive mech, but the chains held him immobile.   The bornlings chirped loudly and reached for him.   

They were so very upset.  Finally, their sire had returned, but he did not pick them up and cuddle them!  

Each tiny bitlet chirped and whimpered, calling to him.  ‘Sire!  Sire!  Hold me!’

Ultra Magnus pulled on the chains, growling with rage and frustration.

“Say the words of submission, Ultra Magnus.  Swear before Primus that you are mine and you may hold them.” Skyfire felt like purging his tanks, sickened at being forced to treat another sentient being in this shameful manner.  But according to Megatron, this was the only way that the warrior could be saved.  

“Say the words.”  Steeling himself, Skyfire stood unmoving, holding the whimpering bornlings before the optics of their sire. 

Skyfire had to atone for his crimes.  The Shuttle had been the one that suggested they take the Grounders as mates.  The ensuing slaughter was his fault. 

If Ultra Magnus was to live, this was the only way.

After a few deep invents, the blue and white warrior spoke.  “By the will of Primus, you have defeated my tribe.  I… I submit to you.  My function is yours, to spare or end as you see fit.  My chassis… is yours… to use as you will.” 

Almost sagging with relief, Skyfire sent the signal to open the restraints.  Ultra Magnus looked up at him as the shackles fell away.  He did not move, not even to staunch the trickle of energon still dripped from his neck cables.  The mech just stared longingly at his chirping, agitated mechlings. 

The Shuttle turned, moving to sit on a large gray couch. “Come, Ultra Magnus.” 

With a nod, the Grounder stood and slowly walked over to be inspected by his new master.  His optics never left his sparklings.

Skyfire inclined his helm and he said, “Sit here on my lap.  You can hold the little ones while I feed them.”  After doing as he was instructed, siting stiffly on his leg struts, a low whine escaped his lip plates as his two surviving bornlings were placed in his arms.  

They squealed happily and nuzzled his chest plate.  

The bornlings were so happy!  Their sire was holding the!

In the back of their processors they still wondered where their carrier and sibblings were?  But that thought was receding quickly.  The big white mech gave them fuel.  Rich delicious fuel.   His powerful field made them feel safe and loved.  His presence had been strange at first, but now it seemed almost natural.     

Eventually they would forget that their lives had been any other way.

 

Coolant flowed freely from the Grounder’s optics as he peppered their little helms with kisses.   The bornlings purred, little fingers grasping his armor possessively as they chirped ‘sire’ over and over. 

 It hurt Ultra Magnus’ spark to think about his beautiful Hot Rod and the podlings that had died with him.  Primus it hurt!  But he could not wallow in his pain.  These two were alive and they needed him.  He would do whatever it took to keep them safe. 

“What are their names?” asked the Flyer as he wrapped an arm around Magnus’ waist to steady him. 

Skyfire could feel the mech in his lap try hard but fail not to flinch at his touch.

“Warpath.” The Grounder indicated the slightly larger of the bornlings, who’s chassis had an orange/red color.   Then he inclined his helm towards the smaller of the pair.  The one that had his sire’s blue and white coloring. “This is Breakdown.”

Smiling gently, Skyfire opened his chest plates and allowed the altered feeding nubs to uncoil.  With excited chirps, each sparkling latched onto a nub and began to suckle.  

The Grounder cradled his sparklings as they eagerly fed from his new master.  The Flyer had not lied in saying he had fed them before.   They showed no fear of the big mech and readily accepted his energon.  

Ultra Magnus wanted to take them and run until they were lost in the Badlands, far away from the malevolent Flyers.  But he knew they would never let him go.  Even if by some miracle he could escape, the gray warrior would hunt him down.  Of that he had no doubt.

And, he had given his submission to the one the called Skyfire.   He dared not break his word.   If he did, when he returned to Primus, the Great Creator would turn him away as an oath breaker.  He would wonder in the void between the Well and the Pit, never to see Hot Rod and his two lost bitlets again.

The only chance for him to be with them one day was to obey the towering Flyer.  

This melancholy thought was still in his processor when he felt his master move.  He carefully reeled the feeding tubes back in.   The little ones had fallen into recharge, purring contentedly against their sire’s chest plate.  “Put them back in the chamber,” said the Flyer softly.  “It is warm.  They will be safe there.”

Ultra Magnus slowly walked to where the odd thing sat.  Once he stood before it, he looked down at the strange clear box for a long time, arms tightly around his sleeping bornlings.  

He did not want to put them inside.

The Grounder did not want to allow his precious bitlets out of his sight, but his master had given him an order.  He was sworn to obey.

Steeling himself, with a last soft kiss to each tiny helm, he placed them inside.

Once the sparklings were nestled together on their heated mesh and the protective chamber closed, the Grounder and Flyer looked at one another for a time, as if neither was sure what to do next. 

After a very long awkward pause, Ultra Magnus bowed his helm and asked, “Where?”

Skyfire blinked at him.  Then he realized what he meant. 

“This way.”  He led Ultra Magnus to the berth room.  They walked in silence.   When they reached the massive berth, the Shuttle was not surprised when Ultra Magnus crawled onto it, lay his helm down on his crossed arms and offered his bared valve.  

He had been warned to expect this posture.  A show of complete submission to his master.  As much as he disliked the idea, for the sake of this mech and his podlings he had to do this. 

Even though he was trying to make things better for the Grounder and his mechlings, he still felt like a rapist.

It was a good thing that he had taken the precaution of using an aphrodisiac before bringing Ultra Magnus here.  He seriously doubted that he would have been able to even get an erection otherwise.

Thanks to this his spike ached.  The chemicals made him hard, even as his processor was repulsed.  Still he had to hold back.  It would take time to arouse the Grounder.  He would do so without using the serum to put Ultra Magnus into heat.  They had taken too much from this mech already.  Skyfire would not rob him of his mind.

He took some lubricant from his subspace and coated his fingers.  The big white Shuttle felt the other mech start to pull away, then fight to hold his frame still under his master’s ministrations.  

No surprise that his valve was dry.  Skyfire used more lubricant, stroking sensors and stretching very tight walls.  ‘He must have only rarely taken a spike.’  

It took time, but eventually Ultra Magnus began to respond.  The walls of his valve started to relax and produce lubricant.  Soon after the other mech’s plating began to heat and his hips moved with the Shuttle’s fingers.  

Once Skyfire had worked in four digits, he decided that the Grounder was ready.   With a slick, wet sound his fingers slid out and the warrior tensed, clearly dreading what was to come.  “Shh… Relax.  I will not hurt you,” he assured, gently stroking the mech’s back as he lined up his spike.

Skyfire moaned as he slowly pushed in.  It was a very tight fit.   But then he was one of the largest types of mechs on the planet.  Shuttles like him were second only to the Guardians in size.   Even a big Grounder like Ultra Magnus was relatively small compared to him.

Both mechs gasped when the Flyer was fully seated within him.  And when Skyfire moved, the moans that came from Magnus were amazing.   Somehow both arousing and sad.   “It’s alright,” he kept repeating as he began to thrust harder.   That tight valve felt so good. 

Still, it was almost a shock as overload hit them both and his transfluids filled the Grounder.  He felt the other mech stiffen beneath him and the walls of that amazing valve tightened even more. 

Panting, but still hard and buried in his reluctant mate, Skyfire rolled both of them onto their sides so that he would not collapse on top of Ultra Magnus.  

Unable to keep from thrusting into that welcoming heat, he could only try and stay slow and gentle.  He held the Grounder tightly against him, nuzzling his neck cables.   For his part, Ultra Magnus lay passively and allowed himself to be stroked and petted. 

Being touched like this made him feel ill and dirty, but he knew he could do this.  For the sake of his bornlings, he would submit to the Flyer. 

Ultra Magnus gasped as the powerful arms tightened around him and another rush of hot transfluids filled his gestational chamber. 

Skyfire hugged the Grounder fiercely, feeling a rush of possessiveness.  No matter the circumstances that caused the situation, this mech belonged to him.  This was his mate and those two little bitlets were his to protect.

“I will keep Warpath and Breakdown safe.  No one will harm them, or you while I function. I give you my word,” he said, kissing his mate’s helm.

For his part, Ultra Magnus was not sure what to think.  He had sensed reluctance from the Flyer at first when they began to interface, but now, there was something different.  He could feel the truth of his words.

Whatever else was happening around him, he knew in his spark that his mechlings would be protected by this giant of a mech. 

Perhaps even loved?

In this insane nightmare he found himself in, at least he had that to hold onto.

 

To be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter - How does UItra Magnus cope, and more Grounders come out of heat.


	17. Turning Points

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Masturbation, Spark Bond Sex, Breastfeeding 
> 
> I do not own the Transformers etc. and any mistakes are my own.

Skyfire reached across the berth for his mate, and immediately realized the other mech was not there.

His processor almost shut down with the sheer number of horrible scenarios that flashed before his optics as he leapt off the berth.  Had Ultra Magnus tried to run with the bornling?  Had he harmed himself? 

Surly he would not hurt the bitlets?

The Shuttle almost sagged with relief when he reached the doorway and found Ultra Magnus sitting on the floor playing with the podlings.  They were trying to climb up his torso.  But mostly ended up sliding down into his waiting servos, giggling and chirping happily.

Even from a distance he could feel that the mech’s field was mixed. 

Mostly calm and happy, but he could also sense a little curl of sadness.  One that he was trying hard to suppress.  Hardly surprising.

Ultra Magnus’ helm jerked up as he realized Skyfire was there.  He pulled his field tight and snatched up the bitlet’s, hugging the little ones to his chest plates nervously. 

“Sorry.  I did not mean to startle you,” said Skyfire.

The Grounder looked a little embarrassed at his action, realizing he had instinctively tried to protect his podlings from his master.   Ultra Magnus had to force himself to relax. 

This mech owned them.  All he could do was pray to the Great Creator that Skyfire truly cared for Breakdown and Warpath as he said. 

The blue and white mech looked down at the bitlets as he spoke.  “I heard them moving around.  They were not hungry yet and I did not wish to disturb you, master.”

The Flyer tried not to cringe at the title.  “I would not be angry or upset if they wake me.  It is my duty to care for them and for you.  And I would prefer you call me Skyfire.”

With a submissive dip of his helm the mech acknowledged the command. 

By this time, Warpath and Breakdown had seen Skyfire.  They began to chirp and bounce excitedly in their sire’s arms.  The Shuttle’s spark melted when they reached out for him.

“Now that you are here, it seems they have realized they are hungry,” noted Ultra Magnus. 

Looking down at his mechlings he managed a little smile, even as the Grounder felt a pang of sadness. Unbidden he recalled how all four of his bitlets would happily play with him, until Hot Rod woke.  Once they spotted him, they would squirm and chirp, begging for his drowsy mate to feed them.

If Skyfire sensed his melancholy mood, he said nothing.  Instead he moved over and sat down on the floor beside them.  Magnus stiffened despite himself, expecting to be once again forced to sit in his master’s lap.  Instead, the Shuttle simply opened his chest plates.   He took the altered feeding tubes and held them out to the mechlings.  They squealed happily, and each took a nub.

The bitlets curled up against their sire, enjoying the warmth of his spark as they nursed contentedly. 

Skyfire sighed, feeling their happiness.   Although his optics kept straying to his mate.  He could not feel anything from his stiff frame.  Ultra Magnus kept his field pulled tight, probably not wanting to ruin the bornling’s meal.

The Flyer had so much he wanted to say to the stoic blue and white mech.  Most began with, ‘I’m sorry.’

No matter how hard he tried, the words would not come. Not that it mattered.  They were so inadequate to what had been done to the Grounder and his tribe. 

Nothing he could say would make up for the loss of the other mech’s pretty young mate or two precious bornlings.    

Regret and remorse could not bring his tribe mechs back from the Well.

Skyfire reached out and brushed a finger over the smaller bornling’s helm, the silence was getting to him.  “Ultra Magnus, you must be hungry yourself.”  The mech had not eaten anything since he had been injured almost five day cycles ago.  Even though he had an energon drip while in stasis, he must be starving.

“I am fine,” the mech said with a dismissive shrug. 

“No, you are not.  You have not refueled for several cycles.  Remember, it is my duty to care for you also.  You must take care of yourself for their sake, and the sake of the bitlets you will be carrying.”

The Grounder’s optics widened at the thought.  With everything else going on, he had not really thought about the fact that the Flyer wanted podlings from him.   His master had taken him quite vigorously several times during the night. 

Ultra Magnus caught no change in his scent yet, but he had no doubt there would be very soon. 

The tribe mechs’ senses had become much more acute during their many thousands of cycles in the desert.  They could usually detect the scent of carrying on a mech within a day cycle of conception. 

He and his hunters had caught the change in Hot Rod’s scent when they returned from the day’s hunt the first time they interfaced.  He had not felt so proud since the day that he was named Chieftain of the Tribe. 

The Grounder was quiet for a long time.   

“Ultra Magnus,” Skyfire said softly, bringing him out of his memories.  “I cannot imagine how difficult all of this is for you.”  The Grounder felt a light touch on his back struts.  “I never wanted any of your tribe to be harmed…  I… Please believe that I will do everything that I can to make this easier for you.  And as I said, it is my duty to care for you.”  To emphasize the point, he took out a cube and handed it to the Grounder.

The blue and white mech simply nodded and accepted it.

Skyfire sighed, reaching out to gently stroke Warpath’s helm.  The mechling was sitting on his sire’s right knee.  The Podling purred and grabbed his finger.   He pulled it to his little chest plate, hugging it. 

Seeing this, Breakdown, who sat on the left knee, reached up beeping while his little arms waved.  He wanted a finger to cuddle with too!

The Shuttle smiled and obliged.

Ultra Magnus’s spark felt a little less constricted.  He was unable to stay too melancholy with his little ones’ fields pulsing with such joy. 

A slight shiver ran though his frame as he invented.  His scent was just beginning to change, proving that he was indeed carrying.  This mech was his master now.  He was the submissive one, to be cared for, protected. 

Coolant leaked from the corner of his optic as his master lifted both of his mechlings into one massive servo.  The other brushed the Grounder’s cheek strut, offering comfort. 

After a moment of hesitation, Ultra Magnus leaned into the touch.

 

Mirage felt as if he had spent an entire night drinking bad high grade.  His optics were unfocused, and his helm ached horribly.

He was disoriented and a little nauseated.  Where was Tracks, where were his sparklings?  He could not feel them at all!

Mirage froze, as he became aware of the heavy, cold, metallic thing that encircled his neck cables.

Then he felt something else.  A field at his back.  Panic struck as he realized he was in a berth with a stranger!

A sob escaped his intake as confused, painful memories flooded his processor. 

He was a slave.  His mate was dead, his precious sparklings had been stolen by the Flyers.  And he was receiving alerts to his CPU that gestational chamber was active.

“NO!!” he growled.  “I hate you!”  The sleek blue and white Grounder growled and lunged at the one who had defiled him, but a shock went through his frame and he collapsed back onto the berth.

The Flyer was on his peds staring down at the trembling, paralyzed mech.

“The collar will stop you from attacking me.  Please do not resist.  You will hurt yourself.  Do not fight. You carry sparklings.” 

The words were strange, but this time, Mirage understood them all.   They had done something to him.  Probably downloaded a better translation program.

His new expanded vocabulary supplied the best word to describe the evil Flyer. “Monster,” Mirage hissed weakly, coolant streaming down his face plate

“I am not a monster.  I am your mate.  Feel the heat from your chassis?  It knows what you need,” chided Thrust as he began stroking the sleek blue frame.  “You have no choice.  You must submit.”

Unable to move even to escape the hate touch, Mirage bit back a sob as his chassis betrayed him and began to heat up.   He was reacting to this horrible creature more strongly than he ever done for his mate.  Whatever this Flyer had done to him had infiltrated the very core of his being, forcing him to desire his defiler.

The Seeker stroked Mirage’s interface panel.  His tormentor smiled as the panel snapped open despite his revulsion, revealing the Grounder’s wet valve. “See? Your frame knows me.  Our bitlets need my transfluids.”

Mirage wanted to fight him, wanted to tear the smug Flyer’s throat cables with his dentas.  He could only writhe and moan as the Seeker crawled over him.  And when the spike slid home he sobbed at the overwhelming pleasure.

Wrong!  Wrong!  His processor screamed as the Flyer used him and his chassis responded.

“No... Don’t want you…” he sobbed.

“Yes, you do,” counted the Flyer.  “You need me.  Our bitlets need me.  And you will come to accept me.”

Mirage whimpered as transfluids filled his chamber.  He felt the fields of the podlings teak happiness at receiving what they needed.

His chassis relaxed into the feeling.  His processor tried to rebel.  He found it difficult.  His core programing was telling him that this mech was his mate.   This was his protector, provider.

All his denials, his longing to be with Tracks was not strong enough to overcome this new programing.  Thrust pulled him close and he could not even protest.  His chassis shuddered with pleasure as the Flyer petted him.

‘Forgive me, my beloved.   This monster will not even leave me my pain.’  He almost sinks into despair, but then he feels the podlings reach out to him.  Love.  Waves of love for him.

‘You are mine, not his.’  Mirage made his decision, reaching back to the podlings.  ‘I must accept his transfluids for your sake, but he will never be my mate.  I will find a way for us to escape.   All of my sparklings.  Hoist, Huffer, Wildrider and Brawn will not be slaves.  I swear by Primus, we will be free.’

 

 

Ironhide curled up as tightly as he could, four fingers deep in his valve. 

Primus it hurt! 

Fragging Seeker had left him locked up in a small room, alone with his growing need.

 

The Grounder had been confused and angry when he woke after being drugged.  His Chronometer said almost four day cycles had passed.  “Why?” he gasped angrily.  “No fight.  Gave valve.”

“Acting as if the very idea was disgusting,” countered the Flyer. 

“Master expect me want him?  Flyers slaughtered tribe.  Hate you,” Ironhide hissed angrily, but then he hunched his shoulders.  “But your tribe defeated us.  No choice.  Me give sparklings.  What more Flyer want?”

“I expect a little enthusiasm,” countered Astrotrain. “You are my mate.  You will at least give me pleasure.”

Ironhide glared.  “You not mate. You master.  Me no fight.   Let Flyer make podlings.  Flyer want begging?”  The Grounder snorted derisively.

Astrotrain had remained silent while his very uncooperative carrier growled in his almost incoherently bad Vosian.  He was now regretting putting off downloading the improved translation program he was offered.  Ironhide had been so horny under the influence of the heat, Astrotrain had been too busy fragging him to think about anything else. He needed to get that program as soon as possible so he would not have to listen to this offence to the audio sensors. 

No matter.  He intended to show his obstinate mate who was boss.  “You are too good to beg for my spike?” he smiled.  “We shall see.”

Ironhide expected a beating.  Instead, the Flyer turned, motioning for him to follow.  Very apprehensively, Ironhide did so.  Something told him he had pushed too far, but he was too angry to care. 

Astrotrain stopped before a door.  He opened it, revealing a very small room.  The Grounder would be able to stand or sit in it, but nothing else.  “Go sit in there and think about your attitude.” 

Snarling, Ironhide obeyed.  Once he was inside, the door closed, cutting off the source of light.  He immediately heard what he assumed was a locking mechanism. 

The hunter laughed derisively.  He had expected a beating.  Not to be treated like a sparkling that had acted out.  Ironhide was mostly just annoyed.  What did he care if the Flyer wanted to punish him by putting him in a dark room? He was a warrior, not a mechling.  He was not afraid of the dark.  And unlike some of his tribe, like Jazz, he did not mind small spaces.  Having to wait out sudden acid rain storms in small caves and crevices left no room for such fears.

Besides, being away from his master for a while was hardly a punishment in his optics.

Until his chassis started to become restless.

He had not been in the small room long when his valve began to itch.   At first, he ignored it.  Ironhide was a warrior.  He could endure a little discomfort.

But what he faced was not just little discomfort.  And it was very quickly getting worse.  By the time he gave in and opened his panel lubricant was already leaking from the seams of his valve cover.  He let out a moan of relief as his fingers slid in. 

Better but not nearly enough.  He had to push in far enough to cause some pain before he felt any relief from the need.

The need kept increasing, making the Ground regret angering his master.  Being fragged by the cursed mech was better than this. 

As he spiraled down into despair, the mech gasped.  ‘Hide?’ He shuddered at the feeling of his mate’s presence finally pushing past his block.

‘No, Ratchet,’ he tried to pull away from the presence of his concerned mate.  He did not want his mate to feel what was happening to him.

‘Please, do not shut me out again,’ sent Ratchet.  His presence pushed deeper past his mate’s defenses.  ‘Let me help you,’ Ratchet’s love filled his spark.  He immediately felt the pain and near desperate need swirling in Ironhide’s spark.

‘Please.  Let it go.  Don’t want you to have to feel this.’

‘I know this is painful.  It is humiliating.  Just remember, he is the one that is wrong.  You did as you should.  You submitted.  He should not have drugged you.’

‘Don’t matter.’

 ‘Yes, it does.  Listen to me.  Do not let him destroy you,’ said Ratchet sending his love in waves.  ‘When he touches you, reach out to me.  Feel our bond.  He can take your chassis, but your spark will be with me.’

‘No,’ sent Ironhide.  ‘Can’t share that with me.  Once he thinks he’s broken me.’

‘That does not matter,’

‘You are so stubborn.  Don’t you understand that I love you,’ countered Ratchet.  ‘What they do is not important.  We have no choice but to lay with them.  But we can still be together.’

‘I can’t,’ Ironhide’s voice was weak.

‘Yes, you can.’

‘You don’t understand.  Fragger left me alone in a store room.  The need he put in me keeps growing.  Hurts so much…’

‘You are not alone,’ countered Ratchet.  With that he opened his spark completely. 

Ironhide gasped at the intense physical sensations that flooded his processor.  He could no longer fight his mate.  No longer wanted to.

The Hunter moaned loudly as his mate sent him pleasure.  The touch of his own fingers on his nodes was magnified.  He whimpered as overload approached, then crashed over him.

The Grounders was soaking up his mate’s love and slowly coming down from the spectacular overload when the door opened.  Astrotrain looked a bit surprised at the panting mech.  “You have made a mess,” he noted, with a smirk.  “Will you be a good mate now, Ironhide?  Or do you want to stay in there all night cycle.”

Ironhide was about to tell the Flyer to go frag himself when he felt his mate sending him calm, soothing pulses.  ‘I know his kind.  He will hurt you and the podlings you carry if you anger him.  Submit.  Do what he wants but let me help you.’

‘He is disgusting,’ growled Ironhide.

Ratchet pulsed love.  ‘He is nothing.  We cannot touch physically, but they cannot keep us apart.  Please?’

‘Only for you, Ratchet.’

Looking up at the annoyed Flyer he said aloud, “Me be good mate.”

“Come then.  Those bitlets you carry need trasnfluids.’

The Flyer stepped back to allow the red mech to move past him.   He was a little surprised when Ironhide held his helm high as strode to the berthroom.  He had expected the mech to be humbled by his ordeal.

“Show me what you have,” growled Ironhide as he lay back on the berth, dripping valve exposed.

And he looked damned sexy.  Astrotrain growled back at him and moved over his frame. 

Ironhide shuttered his optics, turned off his vocalizer and opened his spark to his mate.  Let the foolish Shuttle think the Grounder wanted him.  He and Ratchet were going to enjoy themselves.

And they were going to ignore him.

Astrotrain did notice his reluctant mate’s vocalizer was off.  He did not think anything about it.  Probably the Grounder’s foolish pride not wanting to be too loud when he overloaded on his spike.  As long as the Flyer got what he wanted, nothing else mattered.

Vaguely, Ratchet felt the touch of his own masters.  Skyfire and Thundercracker began kissing and caressing him.  The Grounder squirmed, but little of it had to do with them.

And when they climaxed together, their respective masters felt smug, congratulating themselves on for making them overload so spectacularly.

Ratchet and Ironhide’s sparks pulsed in time. Their love was stronger than the forces trying to keep them apart.

 

 

Hound groaned.  What had happened?  He felt confused and still very light helmed.

Where was he?

“Ah, I see you are awake,” said an unfamiliar voice.  He started to move, intending to kill the Flyer. 

Instead, he gasped as pain flooded his chassis! 

“Please remain calm,” said his captor.

Panting, Hound managed to look up at him.  “Hurts…”

“Yes, I know.  It will ease if you relax and stop trying to harm me.”

Having no choice, he obeyed.  As promised, the pain slowly subsided.

 “I was told your designation is Hound.  I want you to know that I do not wish to hurt you.   But as you are now aware, if you try to attack me, that collar you wear will stop you in an extremely painful manner.” 

The Grounder was, unsurprisingly confused at being able to understand him.  The Physician gave him a moment to digest what was said.  When he did not move to attack, he continued.  “My name is Pharma.  Due to circumstances beyond both of our control, I am now your mate.”

“I have no mate.”

“Yes, you do,” countered Pharma.  “You imprinted on me after you were given a serum to put you into heat.  You carry four podlings.  They will need transfluids soon, and if you do not allow me to give them to you, your chassis will react badly. You should already feel the stirring in your chassis already.”  Even though the mech could understand Vosian now, he was still a primitive, so the Flyer kept his explanation as basic as possible.

The Grounder sat up slowly, cautiously sniffing the air.  This was not a surprise to the Physician.  He had been told their sense were extremely acute.  He could likely already pick up the addition of cyber-pheromone he was beginning to give off since he became sparked.

A trembling servo came to the green mech’s abdominal plates.   He had always assumed he would be the sire when he found a mate.  The thought that he was the carrier, that was difficult to process.

“I am sorry,” sighed Pharma.  “This is not what either of us wanted, but circumstances have forced us together. This does not have to be unpleasant for either of us.  Please understand, I do not expect you to pretend to have any affection for me.  However. if you can accept the situation, I promise that I will take good care of you and the bitlets you carry.”

The Flyer felt himself relaxing slightly as Hound sat quietly.  He seemed to be carefully considering the proposal.   

After several moments of silence, Hound sighed and looked up at the Flyer.  “It seems I have little choice.  I will do as you say, Pharma.”

The Flyer smiled and took a cube of enriched energon from his subspace.  The Grounder hesitated only a moment before accepting it.   As violent as the mech had acted before, Pharma had feared he would be unreasonable.   

Once he finished the energon, Hound looked up at the Flyer.  Pharma’s optics widened at the lustful gaze.  The other mech’s chassis was already beginning to heat up noticeable and the scent that began to come from the purring Grounder made his interface appliance begin to stir in answer.

“The bitlets need transfluids,” noted Hound, patting the berth invitingly.

When all this started he had been horrified at having a mate.  Now that he was able to come to an understanding with his Grounder, Pharma was thinking this situation might not be so bad after all. 

“You are beautiful,” said the Flyer, stroking his mate’s sides.   He was very lucky.  His mate was not only attractive, but also seemed to be one of the more intelligent of the Grounders.  That did bode well for their sparklings.

Now that he had the time to consider it, having them was also appealing.  The bitlets that had been brought in with the Gounders were adorable.  He looked forward to seeing his progeny.

 

Hound could not keep his chassis from responding as his owner leaned in for a kiss.   Whatever they had done to him, at least until he was no longer sparked, he was going to be needing this mech.

The Grounder did not want this, but his frame had other ideas.  He supposed that he should be grateful that he was not killed when he went berserk when he first awoke in captivity with a pair of Flyers trying to open his interface panel.

He acted on instinct, without thinking.  That was stupid and reckless.   Now he was bound to this Flyer.

But all was not lost.  This mech seemed decent and not intent on dominating him.  He was also admittedly very handsome.  Facing him for the sake of the podlings would not be disagreeable.  And even better, he had not forced Hound to give his submission.  

So now that he was in control of himself, he would be a very cooperative, dutiful mate.   With luck the Flyer would not realize his over site, until he was given a chance to escape.

If he behaved, perhaps he could eventually have the chance to speak to other members of the tribe.  Find out whether they were bound by the ritual of submission.   Perhaps their captors did not know about it? 

After all, Flyers were notoriously ignorant on the most basic things.   How many of them had they found in the desert over the cycles?  Lost Seekers who’s sleek chassis had been mostly picked clean by Grid-wolves and Scraplets? 

It would not be easy, but Hound was thinking that despite what had happened, Primus was handing him an opportunity.  From his own words, his master had not intended to take him as his mate at all.   If this mech did not want to rule him, perhaps he had an opportunity to claim some power for himself.

And just maybe, one day he could find a way to return to the desert.

 

 

To be continued.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Now that Optimus is himself again, Dia Atlas wants to speak to him.


	18. Meeting of the Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Optimus and Dia Atlas have a little talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Religious bigotry, misconceptions
> 
> I do not own The Transformers Etc. and any mistakes are my own.

Starscream was not surprised when Optimus wanted to speak to him once his need for physical contact with his mates had finally been sated, for the time being.  He had been out of commission for several day cycles and would be very concerned for his mechs.

“I wanted to know how my tribemates fare,” said the former Shaman, just as the Seeker expected.  “Are they adjusting to the situation?”

“I can say that most of them are doing very well.  Skyfire commed me not long ago to report that Ultra Magnus gave his submission.  He has accepted Skyfire as his mate.  He has been reunited with his two podlings.  The bittlets are very happy to have their sire with them.”

Optimus nodded.  His feelings obviously mixed.  He was pleased that his friend was able to be with his surviving mechlings, but the fact that his former chieftain was now under the dominion of another still saddened him.

Keeping his field tightly controlled he look at his mate.  “What of my mechs that have mates that survived?  Have they been allowed to stay together?”

Starscream shook his helm.  “No.”  The Wing Lord kept his voice neutral.  “Perhaps we were wrong.  We… I made so many mistakes dealing with your tribe.  My advisors thought at the time it would be best if your mechs were given into the care of Seekers so that they could adjust better to life in Vos.  They either submitted or were put into heat.  All of the adult mechs are sparked now.”

The Seeker tried to quash the feeling of shame that welled in his spark as his optics met those soft blue orbs.

“You separated bond mates,” Optimus said sadly.

Starscream felt a very unwanted pang of guilt.  “It may seem cruel, but at the time we saw no way around it.  We did not intend to harm your people, but the situation spiraled out of control.  Several of them that had sparklings were left with no mate to care for them.   Since we inadvertently took their mates it was our duty to see to their welfare.”

“What of Jazz?  One of our scouts, he was with spark.  You… You did not…”

“No,” assured Starscream quickly, reaching out to stroke the distressed mech’s back.  The idea that Optimus thought that he might have had the sparklings terminated cut deep.  Still, he knew this was hardly a stretch under the circumstances.   “A Seeker called Nova Storm has taken custody of him.  He provides transfluids for the podlings.”

Optimus looked concerned.  “And what of Jazz’s mate?”

“He is adjusting very well.  Pr-rowl, I believe that is his designation?  He is in the care of Megatron’s Lieutenant, Cyclonus.  He gave his submission immediately and even helped us with a mech called was um… Hund?  He attacked his assigned mates and was injured after they put him into heat.  Hund is surprisingly understanding of the situation since he came out of heat.   Now that he has recovered, he is cooperative.  Pharma says his new mate has accepted him and seems happy to be sparked.”

“That is encouraging,” said Optimus.  His thoughts were a little less optimistic. ‘Still, Hound lost friends, but not a lover or mate.’  Trying to think positively he looked back to Starscream.  “You said Prowl is doing well?”

“Cyclonus is quite impressed with your mech’s intelligence.”  Starscream felt much better telling him about this.  He also told Optimus about Windcharger.  How the minibot was bringing the new caregivers into the bond with his mechlings.   

Although, when he told the red and blue mech how Ratchet had accepted his trine mates, Starscream noted that this was greeted with even more sadness. 

The Wing Lord realized that the Grounder was a little upset at the news, but then he recalled what Ratchet had said.  He and his mate had raised Optimus. 

Ratchet likely had a mate who was still functional.

He quickly decided to change the subject and told him about the two adolescence.  “The one called Bluestreak is getting along very well with his caregiver.  I gather now that he can understand Vosian he is very chatty.   The other young mech, the little yellow one that cannot speak, he is quite curious.  He wants to learn about everything.  Ramjet said he is very excited at the prospect of seeing the city.”

“His name is Bumblebee,” noted Optimus.  “He and Bluestreak were sent to be trained by our scouts by one of our sister tribes.  I hope eventually there is a way to let their creators know where they are.  They are not sparklings, but still very young.”  The Grounder was relieved to learn that they were not being forced to carry.  “We have come to care deeply for both of them.  Little Bee in particular is always very happy.  It is difficult to be in a bad mood when he is around.”

“Bumblebee?” The Seeker chuckled.  ‘Such odd names these Grounders had.’

“I will make sure that Ramjet is told his name,” assure Starscream. “I know this is not what any of your mechs wanted, but it is good that most are adjusting well to their circumstances,” said Starscream. 

“But not all,” finished Optimus.  He was almost frighteningly perceptive.

“No,” admitted the Seeker.  He had dreaded telling the gentle mech how badly things had gone with one Grounder.  However, Optimus had a right to know.  “The carrier of the four blue mechlings, he has not given his name.  He is still trying to fight.  He is sparked, and the serum that put him into heat makes him unable to refuse his assigned mate.”  That was something Optimus understood all too well.  “But he tries to sturggles against the need and is not fueling as he should.”

“His designation is Mirage,” sighed the Grounder.  “He has not been allowed to see his sparklings?”

“No,” Starscream looked away.  “When he first woke he was violent.  That is why Thrust had to use the serum.”

“But from what you said he has come out of heat?” asked the Grounder.

“Yes.  Thrust reported that he had also come around last night.” Starscream sighed.  “Unfortunately, he is still hostile.  The mech is unable to harm his mate now, but he has not accepted Thrust.  We fear he might try to harm himself and the podlings he carries.”

“Mirage is grieving.  His mate is dead, and he is separated from his little ones.  Is it really surprising that he is uncooperative?”  The Grounder looked terribly sad.  “Perhaps it would help if I spoke to him?” suggested Optimus. 

 “I believe that is a very good idea.  But first, you and I are going to be meeting.  My High Priest, Dia Atlas has requested that we meet with him.”

 

Starscream had not been exactly thrilled when he received the invitation from his High Priest. (Read: Summons.)  Particularly because Dia Atlas insisted that the Wing Lord bring Optimus with him.

The priest had decided that it was past time to bring the Grounders to Vos and ‘civilize’ them. 

That was why he insisted on meeting Optimus.  Apparently, he wanted to assess the state of the Grounders’ religious education.

Sighing, Starscream wondered exactly what was going through the mech’s helm.  He had managed to persuade the Priest that they needed to proceed carefully if they did not want to repeat the horrible incident that cost so many innocent lives at the old temple. 

Besides, he had already informed the stubborn mech that it would be at least six lunar cycles before the Grounders would be back in their hunting grounds in the areas around ruins of Iacon and Praxis.

The Storm Season camp was deep in the south, past the ruins of Kaon.  The acid storms were much too dangerous for the Flyers to try to travel anywhere near Kaon during until the storms ended.

For the time being, there was no way for them to contact the tribes. 

Something told the Wing Lord that he should be very careful with the priest.  This nagging suspicion was yet another reason for Megatron to be elsewhere during the meeting.  The last thing he needed was for his volatile mate to become impatient with the head of the priesthood. 

Their relationship was antagonistic enough already.

Starscream also got the strong feeling that his mate was convinced that Dia Atlas would be tempted to assert Priestly Privilege and try to take Optimus for himself.

Supposedly there was a tradition along those lines.  It was the subject of some tawdry fiction, which he had read as an adolescent.   If the ancient custom existed at all it had fallen out of practice long before the Great War.   

Starscream found Megatron’s paranoia completely absurd.  Yes, Optimus was very desirable.  However, the High Priest was an intelligent mech.  And he was not a Letcher.  It was true that the priests of Vos were not celibate as those of the Grounder tribes.  He had not kept close track of his High Priest’s private life, but he was aware that he had a lover. 

Even so, Dia Atlas was completely devoted to Primus. 

And above all else, he was also an honorable mech.  One that would never abuse his position in such a vile way.

It had taken a lot to convince his Lord Protector that he did not need to stand behind Optimus, glowering at Dia Atlas to assert their claim.

While he had no fear of having to fight for his mate, Starscream was still a little nervous as they approached the towering majesty of the Temple of Primus. 

His carrier took him there often when he was a sparkling.  The beautiful, yet oddly gloomy tower always made him feel very small and more than a little nervous.

His sire avoided the Temple whenever possible.  ‘The Priests are too powerful.  If you let them, they will make the Wing Lord nothing but a figurehead under their dominion.   Be respectful, do deliberately antagonize them, but never be deferential.  The Priests think they are closer to Primus, but the Wing Lord rules Vos.’

Starscream took that advice to spark.

He knew the importance of the Priesthood.  As spiritual advisors and councilors they held a great deal of sway over the general populace.  It was the priests that offered comfort to all those that lost mates, sparklings and friends to the virus.  Without them, many more of his mechs would have been lost to grief and despair.

He respected Dia Atlas. The mech was intelligent, strong willed and his faith in Primus was unshakable.

The High Priest was a force to be reckoned with.

Starscream would be very careful.

 

A sense of anticipation coursed through the tall, elegant Seeker as he paced back and forth across the length of his office.   

Dia Atlas was surprised at just how anxious he was to speak to the Wing Lord’s Grounder mate. 

He wondered if what Starscream said was true?  That Optimus was as exceptionally intelligent and well-spoken as he claimed.

And how well versed was this ‘Shaman’ in the teachings of Primus?  He shuddered to think how badly the Creator’s words could have been mangled and bastardized over the thousands of stellar cycles since the Grounders were driven into the desert.

Did the Tribes have copies of any of the scriptures?  Did they have access to the other sacred tomes, such as the Prophesies of The Thirteen or the Covenant of Primus? 

For that matter, could they even read? 

His priests were ready to instruct them in the way of Primus   Once the Grounders were given download patches so the they understood Vosian this would be much easier.  However, before being brought to Vos as mates, the primitive mechs would also need training in the simple basics of civilized living.  Their barbaric nature would have to be calmed so that they could embrace Vosian society and culture.  That would be best done by professional educators. 

Besides, the researchers estimate that between the dozens of Grounder tribes there could be upwards of two hundred younglings.   Making sure that these young mechlings processors were molded into proper citizens of Vos was of paramount importance.

Sadly, there were many mechs that once taught younglings who now worked in other fields.  There were no bitlets left to teach. 

That was a thought he tried not to contemplate for long.  Even before becoming a Priest, Dia Atlas believed in the wisdom and love of Primus with all his spark.  That was why he entered the Priesthood.  Still, the staggering number of podlings and younglings lost to the virus…

Surely some of those teachers would be happy to volunteer in this great crusade?  Even if they were teaching Grounders, the little mechlings were so adorable…  

The High Priest was deciding how to go about recruiting instructors when his com was pinged.

‘Yes?’ he sent, somewhat impatiently.

‘Lord Starscream and his… um… concubine… are here, Eminence.’

‘Show them in, immediately.  But do have a care, Tracer.  That Grounder carries the Wing Lord’s heirs.  You will be respectful.” 

He frowned, realizing this did bring up some issues. 

They needed to make sure that the primitive mechs were accepted.  The Grounders could not simply be breeders.  He had felt their fields.  They were not mech-animals.  That was one of the misconceptions that needed to be addressed immediately. 

The Priest decided that Starscream, Megatron and all of those that had been gifted with Grounder mates must officially take them as Conjunx Endura as soon as possible.

If they wanted the Grounders to be accepted by the people of Vos, they must make their relationships legal and proper in the optics of Primus.

‘Your pardon, Eminence.  I was… unsure as to the correct terminology.’

Dia Atlas dismissed the acolyte, allowing the matter drop and turned his attention to his guests.

His intake dropped as the pair entered his office.  Only a lifetime in the public optic stopped him from staring slack jawed at the exquisite creature standing before him. 

Primus!  Was this the same mech he had seen curled up on Lord Protector Megatron’s lap?  The mech that had stared at him with wide, vacant optics and trembled like a frightened cyber-kitten?

He felt a little annoyed at the knowing look from Starscream.   The mech could read his face plate and field.  He understood exactly what the Priest was feeling.    

Yes, he had noted that the Grounder was sleek and admittedly desirable before.  But now...  It went beyond simple physical beauty.  He had such regal bearing.  Everything about him exuded dignity and nobility.  

The pulse of his powerful, yet infinitely calm field was like being immersed in a warm oil bath. 

Quite suddenly he understood not only the Wing Lord and Protector’s possessiveness of their mate, but their having staked their claim on him the moment they laid optics on him.

With a nod of his helm, Starscream ushered his mate in.  “Optimus, this is Dia Atlas, High Priest of Vos.” 

The tall red and blue mech bowed gracefully and addressed the larger mech as Starscream had obviously instructed.  “I am honored to meet you, Eminence.  I am told that we have met before, but I fear that I have no memory of it.”  His deep, resonant voice was the sweet icing on the oil cake.  The Wing Lord was lucky indeed to have found such a treasure.

Dia Atlas wondered if was Optimus unique, or if he too might be able to find such a perfect mate among the Grounders? 

“Optimus,” he said, keeping his gaze upon the sleek Grounder’s face plate.  It was not easy.  Dia Atlas was not a mech known for allowing himself to be distracted by a pretty frame, but his optics kept trying to stray to those slim hips.  “There is no need to feel distressed.  I am aware that you were under the influence of a powerful drug at the time.  It pleases me to see you are yourself again.”

He nodded.  “Starscream has said that you have questions for me.”

“Indeed, I have many questions.  Our people have had very little contact with one another these many stellar cycles since the war.   We know so little of the way your people live.  I wish to know; how do your tribes survive in that barren wasteland?”

“We learned by brutal necessity that it is not nearly a barren as you believe.  My ancestors had only what little they could carry with them when they were driven from Iacon.  They were forced to adapt or face deactivation.  According to the stories passed down to me, many perished in those first cycles after their exile.  Hunger, thirst and deadly beasts took many of them.  In those terrible days some believed Primus had abandoned us.  But he had not.   He sent teachers for those willing to learn.”

“Teachers?” asked the Priest.

“By observing the creatures native to that place, they learned the skills necessary to survive.  My ancestors saw how the petro-rabbits always dug around scraggly bits of dried brush that were prevalent in the desert.  At the tips of the roots of those plants they discovered energon rich seed pods that would sate their hunger.  Excited, they observed more of the denizens of the desert, and soon found they could obtain the necessities of existence all around them.  My people not only survived but thrived.”

“It seems impossible that any mech could thrive there.  That place is so inhospitable,” noted the Priest.

“On the surface it does seem so,” admitted the Grounder.  “But we have learned to live in harmony with our environment.  Primus will provide. There is a good life in the desert for those that embrace it.”

Starscream had leaned in closer.  He was very interested in what his mate had to say.

Optimus continued.  “Turn over a rock, and you will likely find small cyber-beetles that taste like magnesium pasties.   A few of them can sustain you for many cycles.   Or you may discover a layer of dark spongy moss.  It that can be boiled to make a cure for the venom of the pit viper.  There are also the diaptase-deer, petro-rabbits, crystal-grouse, zap-horses, gallium-goats and barium-boar that are abundant in the desert if you know where they roam, to provide not only fuel, but also shelter.”

 Dia Atlas raised and orbital ridge.  “I had heard that your people consumed mech-animals.  Forgive me, but the thought is somewhat disturbing.”

“My people long ago overcame any such feelings.  Resources are more plentiful than your people realize, however, the wells of liquid energon are few and far between.  Many of the more prolific edible metalo-plants are found only in the area around them.   My ancestors had to adapt or die.  Learning to hunt and consume other living beings was difficult, but hunger and desperation do not allow for delicate sensibilities.  We must kill to survive but we hold the mech-animals that we hunt in the highest honor, for without them, we could not exist.”

Neither Starscream nor Dia Atlas understood how one could honor something you killed but did not press the issue.

 The High Priest decided to change the subject.  As fascinating as that topic of desert survival was, he needed to know more about the Grounders teachings of Primus.  “I would like to ask you some more detailed questions about your beliefs.” 

“I will answer as best I can,” said Optimus.

“Thank you,” the mech paused for a moment as he realized that he was being extremely rude.  “Please, forgive me.  You are with spark and I have kept you standing here while we talk.  Let us sit and be more comfortable.”  He indicated several very comfortable looking chairs, in an alcove near a large bay window.  This was his favorite place to work or conduct business.  It had a lovely view of Vos.  Especially in the evening when the sun was setting. “Would you like some refreshment?”

Starscream declined.  He thought Optimus might also, but the Grounder placed a servo over his abdominal plating.  A small smile graced his faceplate.  “I am being made aware that I should accept.”

Dia Atlas found himself smiling also as he commed his assistant and requested some enriched energon, and a platter of treats.  He himself had never been sparked, but at times before the virus many of his Priests and Acolytes had carried.  No matter how they tried to control themselves, he never met a sparked mech that could resist energon rolls with copper shavings. 

Once the tempting confections were deposited on the low table that sat between them, Optimus immediately took one.  The lovely mech shuttered his optics as he savored the delicious treat.  As close as they were to Optimus, the Seekers could feel little tentative teeks from the podlings.  They could not form any sort of coherent thought, but they sent little pings out to the world around them.

It had been so long since Dia Atlas had been near a sparked mech.  He had almost forgotten how, even at so early a stage, podlings sought to learn about the world outside of their shells.

“Podling are Primus’ most precious gift,” noted Optimus, seeing the contemplative look in the Priest’s optics, and the way they had fixed on his abdominal plating.  “With all that we have been through, it would be easy to fall into despair.  But when I feel these little ones reaching out to explore the world around my gestational chamber, I am happy.  They are so curious about everything they feel.  They give me hope for the future.”

“Hope has been absent from Vos for far too long,” admitted Starscream.

“A sad truth,” added Dia Atlas.  “Since we are discussing the gifts of Primus, I would like to know more of your peoples’ understanding of the teachings of our creator.”

“I will answer as best I can.  I have studied many of the sacred text, but I was not a Priest as your people define it.  As a Shaman of the tribes, I was a teacher and spiritual advisor.  Our Priests live in the ancient temples near the ruins of Crystal City and Praxis.  They have devoted themselves completely to the study of the Great Creator and his teachings.”

“Your Priests keep themselves sequestered?  They do not guide the tribes in the ways of Primus?”  Dia Atlas was quite surprised by this. 

“Not directly.  They teach those that are chosen for the Shaman’s path, but they have little contact with other mechs on a daily basis.” 

 “An interesting system,” began Dia Atlas.  He was still having difficulty processing the fact that the Grounder Priests shuttered themselves away from the people.  Primus wanted his chosen representatives to be active.  To spread his word and keep lay mechs on the proper path.  They could not do that locked away in monasteries.   “I suppose we should begin with the basics.  Do your people have knowledge of the Covenant of Primus?”

“I have tried to teach any who wish to know more about the Great Creator.  I had data pads containing treatise on the Covenant of Primus and the Prophesies of the 13 from scholars who lived before the Great War.  Sadly, those data pads were lost when we were taken,” he noted with a sigh.  “Also, each of the temples in the Bad Lands contains copy of the Covenant of Primus and usually many other sacred writings.  The copies of the Covenant of Primus in the Iacon Temple were hand written by my mentor.   Alpha Tron transcribed it from the one that he brought with him when my people were forced to abandon Iacon.”

Both Seekers blinked at him.  “You are saying that your mentor was present during the final battle of the Great War?” gasped Dia Atlas.   The last surviving Flyer from the war had returned to the Well long before he had emerged.

“Yes.  He was a young mech working in the palace archives.  He was a witness to the final meeting between Sentinel Prime and Wing Lord Dreadwing, when the Seekers declared war.”

“The Seekers declared war?  Our histories say it was the Grounders that declared war on Vos.  They say that Sentinel flew into a rage when the Wing Lord refused to release Vos’ monopoly and open the trade routes to Kaon,” said Starscream.  Admittedly, he never thought a disagreement about trade to be sufficient provocation to go to war.  It made the Grounders seem rather petty.  The Wing Lord had always assumed there was more to the story.   However, he was not expecting a complete reversal of the accepted story.

“You are saying that it was Dreadwing who declared war on the Grounders?” asked Dia Atlas.  His thoughts were very close to Starscream’s.  That was not what he expected to hear.  And he was not sure that he believed it. 

It was not surprising that the story be skewed in the favor of the mechs telling it.  

Optimus nodded.  “Alpha Trion kept a journal of those times.  It is in the Temple of Iacon.  He allowed me to read it.” 

“What did he say was the reason for the war?” asked the High Priest.  He was not ready to simply believe everything that Optimus told him.  It was likely heavily influenced by Grounder propaganda.  Still, he needed to know what they told their people.   It would help them counter it once the Priests began teaching them.

“He said that Sentinel and Dreadwing were lovers.   They had even talked about bonding and uniting Iacon and Vos. Their relationship was an open secret in the palace of Iacon.  But it ended the moment Sentinel was chosen as the new Prime.  Dreadwing was enraged, believing that he should have received the Matrix.”

“Dreadwing was jealous?” said the Priest thoughtfully.  That made sense with things that he had gleamed from some of the ancient text.  There were journals and other writings from priests of the time that did seem to hint that there was more to the animosity between the Prime and Winglord than the official histories let on. 

But he was not quite ready to accept that the entire war, the deaths of so many mech and damage done to their world was the result of a lover’s quarrel.

“Is this information well known to your people?” asked the Priest.

“That was not something our Priests normally spoke of,” shrugged Optimus.  “And I am the only Shaman that Alpha Trion had personally trained in many stellar cycles.”

“Where is your mentor?” asked Dia Atlas.

“I was rendered unconscious early in the fighting, so I did not witness it.  But according our healer, Alpha Trion fell at the temple,” said Optimus sadly.

Starscream nodded.  “Unfortunately, both of the tribes Elders died in the fighting.  We brought their chassis to Vos… to study.”

“You brought all of the frames of those that that perished here?” asked Optimus.

“Yes,” answered the Wing Lord.

“Would it be possible for my mechs to see them?” asked the Grounder.  “We were not allowed to…  Perform their funeral rituals. Their families and friends need to say goodbye and give their sparks over into Primus’ keeping.”

“He is right, Starscream,” the Priest agreed, genuinely touched by the request.  “It is not right for us to treat their frames like specimens.  These were mechs with sparks.”  He reached over and took Optimus’ servo, ignoring Starscream’s glare at the action.  “We will arrange for their funeral rites here in the Temple of Primus.  I would be honored if you would allow my mechs to assist you with the preparations.”

Optimus nodded. 

Their discussion was more subdued after that, especially when Dia Atlas brought up the idea that all the Grounders be made Conjunx Endura to their new mates. 

“I would not object to becoming Conjunx with Starscream and Megatron, however, some of my mechs’ mates are still functional.”

Dia Atlas frowned.  “They are bonded?  Joined by a Priest?”

“No…”  The idea seemed odd to Optimus.  “They declare their intentions to become mates before the tribe.  We have never needed any other ceremony.”

“Then they are not bonded in the optics of Primus,” declared the Seeker with finality. 

“But…”  Optimus tried to interject, but Starscream placed a servo on his shoulder.  Their optics met, and the Wing Lord shook his helm.  Once his High Priest got an idea in his helm it was nearly impossible to change it.

“Yes,” the Priest nodded, having decided on his course of action.  “They must be legally bonded to the sires of their sparklings as soon as possible.”

“Please, can we not hold off on this for those that lost mates?   Even if you do not recognize their union, they loved one another.  You cannot rush those that are mourning into bonding.”

“Yes,” conceded Dia Atlas.  “You are right.  Those mechs will need time to grieve.  But they must become Conjunx Endura before the podlings emerge.”

After that exchange the Grounder was very subdued.  But still, they continued until Starscream noticed that Optimus had drawn his field in tight and seemed very withdrawn.  Both Flyers realized what was happening.  The serum that had put the lovely Grounder into heat still affected him. 

The need to interface was rising quickly.  Nothing was said as the Wing Lord help Optimus to his peds and bid Dia Atlas farewell.   

Once the Wing Lord and his mate had gone the High Priest of Vos leaned back in his chair for a moment.  Then he turned on his com.

‘Tracer, I need two Scribes accompanied by a squad of guards to go to the ruins of the Temple at Iacon as soon as it is safe to do so.  It has come to my attention that there are documents housed there that need to be recovered.’  He shuttered his optics.   ‘Every data pad or scrap of paper is to be collected and brought to me immediately.  Please make it clear that they are not to be read by anyone.’

‘Of course, Eminence.’  The Acolyte did not sound convinced, but he would never question the orders of his superior.

Dia Atlas had almost commanded that everything be destroyed on the spot, but he relented.  While it would be… uncomfortable… for any of this to get out to the public, the scholar in him recoiled at the idea of destroying the text. 

Knowledge must be preserved.   Even if it was only in the servos of the Priests.

Besides, he was very curious to find out the Grounders’ perspective on those troubled days.

‘And Tracer, bring me some high grade.’  He found himself breathing in the lingering scent of Optimus’ cyber-pheromones, causing his interface panel to heat uncomfortably. 

He changed the com frequency and sent another message. 

‘My dear one, would you like to come to my chamber?’ he sent to his lover, Quazar.

‘Gladly,’ the young Noble purred.  He was always so eager.  And right now, Dia Atlas really needed to feel that lovely frame against his own.

Although, he did feel a little embarrassed that the chassis that fueled his desire was not Quazar’s lovely green and gold, but that of a seek red and blue Grounder.

 

To be continued.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: Bumblebee and Bluestreak’s guardians have the same idea. To show their charges the wonders of the Vosian markets.


	19. To Market

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Flyers have the same idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own the Transformers etc. and any mistakes are my own.
> 
> Not much on warnings this time out. A little prejudice, a non-graphic flashback to a traumatic event. That's really it.

Bluestreak bounced on his peds with pure sparkling-like excitement.  He had barely been able to sit still during the Shuttle flight to the market complex. 

This was a major improvement from earlier in the day cycle.

At first the young mech was happy.   The Grounder’s optics were wide with awe as he stared out the large view port.   He wanted to see Vos from the air.

And then he admitted to his caregiver that he had been curious, in equal measure to his fear, during the flight over the desert. 

Bluestreak jad begun to tremble as he told Blades that he had been in chains in the transport. 

A little whimper escaped his vocalizer. The young mech found himself remembering the terror he felt as he huddled between Jazz and Bumblebee in that small, claustrophobic compartment while a bunch of massive Seeker warriors glared at them as if they were rabid grid-wolves.

The Helo had hugged Bluestreak, apologizing profusely for the way he and his tribe had been brought in.  He had not considered just how traumatic his ward’s journey to Vos had been.

The young mech found himself reliving the horror of that cramped, stiflingly hot space.  He tried to be brave as the memories overwhelmed his processor but could not stop his sniffles as the words poured out. 

Blades was a very good mech.  Some might say naive.  He believed in looking for the best in every situation. 

But there was little good in this one.  He was happy that he had the chance to get to know Bluestreak but wished there had been a way from them to meet without the trauma that had befallen the sweet young mech.

The Praxian leaned into the hug, needing the contact as the traumatic memories invaded his processor.  Blades wanted to pet his quivering door wings but feared this might be taken the wrong way.  At least among Flyers, the gesture would be taken as sexual in nature and that was the last thing Bluestreak needed.

“I do not blame you for what happened, Blades,” said Bluestreak when they separated.   “You were not even there.”  The younger mech still marveled that he could now understand almost everything that the big Flyer said.  The language download had opened a whole new world for him.

When they reached the landing zone and disembarked, bright blue optics darted over the massive complex.  It was vastly larger than the market at the Storm Season camp near old Kaon. 

And there were so many Flyers.  Many even soared over helm.  There were very few flyers among the Tribes.  To see so many colorful Seekers flitting about like crystal-grouse was amazing.

The young Praxian almost gave himself whiplash, whipping his helm around, trying to see everything at once.  Spotting something interesting, he all but dragged his guardian through the throng. The innocent adolescent did not seem to notice that he himself was becoming the focus of much attention from the surprised Vosians. 

They parted for the young mech.  All conversation stopped as he walked by.

Chuckling, Blades indulged his young charge.  Particularly when he dragged the Helo over to a shop selling energon treats.   Blades was very familiar with that shop. The Proprietor smiled and waved recognizing one of his best customers.

Blades had a sweet denta.   

“There is so much here.  So many colors… And everything smells so wonderful,” gasped Bluestreak almost bouncing with excitement.

“This is my favorite shop in the entire market,” chuckled Blades, somehow not surprised that the young mech had picked this one shop out of the entire market.  “You can have two bags of treats.  Believe me, you can get a wide variety in those to bags.”

Bluestreak’s smile was beatific as he looked over the brightly colored treats, trying to decide which ones to get.  An older Seeker with slightly faded red and black coloring blinked his optics when he realized that his friend had brought an excited Grounder with him.

He blinked at the young Praxian, then glanced over and saw Blades.  The Helo smiled at him.  “Good morning, Lasher.  This is Bluestreak.  As you can see, he is a Grounder.  But let me assure you that he is not dangerous.  The Wing Lord has placed him under my care.”

“Well, well, my old friend, I had no idea you were so well connected,” the mech chuckled.  “I had been hearing rumors that the Wing Lord and his Protector had gotten themselves a pretty Grounder, along with a few other mechs in the court.  So, this is your breeder?   Lucky mech.  Such a lovely thing he is too.  And your Grounder is Praxian, isn’t he?  Thought they were all killed after the war.”

Bluestreak looked confused at this and not exactly comfortable.  He now understood the words, but they were not making sense.  Why would anyone harm Praxian frame types?  They were well respected among the Grounder tribes for their abilities as scouts thanks to the sensitive sensors in their door wings.

He had heard tribe mechs brag about the fact that they had a Praxian scout.

“That is not true as you can plainly see,” noted Blades, gently patting the upset Grounder’s shoulder strut.   He then moved closer to his friend and lowered his vocalizer.  “And Bluestreak is not my breeder.  Well, I guess technically he is.  Or at least, he will be my mate once his reproductive protocols come online.  How he came to be in my care is a very tragic story.  A… Misunderstanding occurred when the Wing Lord attempted to contact his tribe.  He did intend to bring them to Vos as carriers for us, but somebot pulled a weapon and before anyone could stop it several of the Grounders were deactivated.  Bluestreak is still young.  I am to be his guardian until he is of age.”

“Ohhh,” the older Seeker felt a little embarrassed that he had been ogling the sleek young Praxian’s door wings with lusty optics.  “Sorry, Blades, you know how rumors are.”

“Yes, I do,” he sighed. 

The rotary mech did know about rumors.  Blades really hoped that the Wing Lord started making some announcements soon.  He had stopped checking his messages days ago.  Most of his friends had already been attempting to contact him and were demanding all the salacious detail of what was going on with him and his Grounder. 

He had expected stares, but honestly, not the shock and fear that permeated the fields of the mechs that were starting to congregate around the shop.  Perhaps he should have waited to bring Bluestreak to such a public place?

There were few Flyers who had ever even seen a Grounder except in history tapes.

Still Blades had been asked to teach his young ward about Vos and make him into a civilized mech. This would be hard to do with the Grounder stuck in his home. 

That thought lead him to another.  He was supposed to be a good mate to the young mech when the time came.  

The Seeker had to admit that he had a problem with the last part.  Bluestreak was not what he had expected from a bot from the Waste Lands.  He was just so intelligent and eager to learn.  He was also very sweet. 

It was hard to believe that the innocent blue mech had been raised by violent barbarians.  While what happened was tragic, every warrior that he had spoken to did say that one of the Grounders threatened the Wing Lord and caused the deaths.  What were they supposed to do?  Just let them murder the Wing Lord?

After seeing Bluestreak he had reluctantly agreed to do this.  Although Blades now found it difficult to contemplate the last part of his assignment.  That he would eventually be expected to sire podlings with his charge.

Maybe the idea would become easier in a stellar cycle or two when Bluestreak’s interface protocols came on line?  The Grounder was very attractive, with his sleek frame and door wings.  But right now, Blades found it impossible to feel anything but paternal and protective towards the youngling.

Watching the excited Grounder excitedly examining the treats, he was just too much like a mechling to even consider him as an interface partner.

The Seeker was watching the youngling, who was busy trying to decide which of the tempting treats he wanted to try.  That was when Blades noticed that a large crowd of Flyers were slowly surrounding the oblivious Praxian. 

The Helo was starting to become concerned at the number of Seekers and the mix of frightened and lustful looks that some of them were giving the innocent young mech.   His protector protocols spiked as the mob moved in closer.

He was about to angrily tell them to back off when he heard a loud shrill beep.  Bluestreak turned at the noise…

 

Ramjet stood back to watch his little yellow ward.  He now knew that his designation was Bumblebee, thanks to a communication from the Wing Lord’s secretary.

(Such strange names the Grounder’s had.)

The young mech had squealed and clapped his servos when his actual designation was spoken.  The Seeker could not help but smile at how happy the use of his proper name made the small Grounder.

Upon their arrival Bumblebee gawked at the market.  Obviously, the young mech had never seen anything like it in his function. 

At first Ramjet began to rethink his decision.  Was bringing Bumblebee to the market really such a good idea?

 

Bee, as he liked to be called, had literally been in the Seeker’s lap the entire trip in the Shuttle.  As it turns out, the ‘fierce barbarian’ was terrified of flying. 

And that embarrassed Bee greatly. 

It took him a few moments to gather the courage to get off Ramjet’s lap and exit the Shuttle once it landed.  But when he stepped out, the Grounder’s optics went wide as he took in the cacophony of sights, sounds and scents that was the Vosian market.   He almost tripped on the steps while trying to take in everything at once.

He was completely oblivious to the attention he was receiving from the Flyers who were near the landing pad the moment they stepped out. 

There was shock and even a little fear from the throng of Vosians.   

Ramjet wanted to laugh.  It was ridiculous.   Yes, Grounders had been portrayed as violent barbarians since the war ended, but really?  Anyone with optics could see that this adorable youngling was no threat. 

The relatively small Praxian, with his lovely door wings and big bright blue optics could not have been less threatening.

The Seeker was shaking his helm sadly at the sad state of his fellows when he heard a loud beep from his charge.  Bumblebee squealed and suddenly raced off into the crowd.

“Bee!” he cried, rushing after the bright yellow mech.  Fortunately, that was not a common color, so it was easy to follow him.  That and the way the Seekers in the area leapt skyward to escape from the ‘terrible barbarian’ who had suddenly appeared in their midst.

To his shock he soon found what had caught his young charge’s attention. 

It was another Grounder. 

A beautiful blue Praxian. 

The two Grounders were hugging one another happily.  Bumblebee was beeping while the blue mech was babbling in what must be their language.  After a moment they stepped back.  Bumblebee began gesturing wildly while Bluestreak babbled.   The pair seemed completely oblivious to the stares from the shocked Flyers that surrounded them.

Ramjet caught sight of a tall bright yellow Helo moving closer to the Grounders.  At first, he thought he might be an enforced intending to arrest him and the happy younglings.  Instead the blue one turned to the newcomer to introduce his yellow tribe mate. 

Bee saw him and chirped excitedly, motioned his guardian to join them.  The Seeker moved cautiously closer. 

The yellow Flyer smiled warmly.  “Oh, hello.  My name is Blades.  You are this mech’s guardian?”

“Yes, my designation is Ramjet,” the Seeker said with a nod.  “My charge’s name is Bumblebee.”

“These young Grounders are certainly energetic,” noted the shopkeeper, watching the door winged mechs hugging and babbling away.

He and the other two Seekers also recalled the sizable crowd had gathered around the oblivious Praxians.

Although, after a few moments the young mechs also began to realize they were the center of attention.

Bumblebee’s bright blue optics widened, and he warbled and shrank in on himself.  Bluestreak pulled him close.  The two mechs hugged each other, but this time they radiated fear. 

The young mechs looked at the Seekers who crowded in closer in a way that could only be construed as menacing.

Blades stepped in front of the now cowering Praxians.  “Hey mechs, lets back up a little.  Yes, they are obviously Grounders.   But these are not monsters.  Just younglings that have been separated from their families.”

“They are not dangerous,” assured Ramjet, moving to place a protective arm around Bumblebee’s shoulders.   The nervous Grounder shrank against him.

Blades also stepped back to take a protective stance beside his charge.  “Come on.  Just look at them.  They are terrified of you.  These younglings are not a threat to anyone.”

“That much is obvious,” noted a deep voice from the rear of the crowd. 

The Seekers all turned to find the speaker.  The tall purple mech shook his helm.  “Go about your business.   These are not energon thirsty barbarians.  They are barely past mechling hood.”  No one moved.  “Most of you should recognize me.  I am Cyclonus, first Lieutenant to Lord Protector Megatron.    I order you to leave these poor younglings be, or I will call in the enforcers.”

That finally got through to nervously milling mechs and they began to slowly move away.

“Uh, thank you, sir,” said Ramjet nervously.

“It is my duty to keep the peace,” shrugged the tall purple warrior.  “Besides, I have a Grounder mate of my own.  A Praxian, like these younglings.  Eventually, I would like to be able to bring him out in public without causing a panic.”

“Is Prowl alright sir?” asked Bluestreak shyly.  Bumblebee beeped hopefully to add his own interest. It was easy for them to make the connection.  There was only one other mech with door wings in the tribe.  The big Flyer had to be talking about their mentor.

“He is fine, younglings,” assured Cyclonus.  “When I left, he was in recharge.”  He did not mention that Prowl in recharge because he was exhausted from multiple overloads. 

That was something these underage mechs did not need to know.

“Could we see him, sometime?” asked Bluestreak.

“Things are a little hectic at the moment, Bluestreak,” Cyclonus said thoughtfully.  “However, if your guardians are willing, I believe that a visit could be arranged eventually.  Now, I believe you two have some treats to choose.” 

The Grounders looked at one another, smiled and went back to the kiosk.   While the young mechs were occupied Cyclonus motioned their guardians to come closer.  “It is fortuitous that we found one another.  I was ordered by the Wing Lord to speak to all mechs with Grounders in their custody.  The Priests of Primus are preparing the frames of the mechs that were killed at the Temple for a funerary ritual.  It is thought that being able to see them and bid their tribe mates farewell will give them all a sense closure.  However, this is not mandatory.  As their guardians it is your decision whether or not to allow them to attend.”

“I will speak to Bluestreak,” said Blades.  “I believe he will want to go.”

“Bumblebee will likely wish to attend as well,” added Ramjet.

“One thing.  The Wing Lord thought it would be best to bring them in one at a time.  Some of the Grounder are not adjusting and need more time alone with their new mates.  But I will see if we can make an exception for these younglings.” added the purple Seeker.  “They both appear to be adjusting well so I cannot see any reason to make them not to go together.  And they will also be able to speak to the Wing Lord’s mate.  He was apparently some sort of teacher and spiritual leader among the Grounders.  The Priests from the temple of Primus will also be there, but I believe that they will gain more comfort from someone that they know.”

“We will speak to them once they are finished choosing their treats,” assured Blades.  Although he felt protective of the young mech he thought that Bluestreak was mature enough to handle seeing their deceased friends’ frames.

“Perhaps your mate could come at the same time,” said Blades.  “He is very important to them.  Having him to lean on might be a good thing for them.”

Cyclonus thought about it a moment.   He was a little hesitant to allow it, but perhaps it would be helpful to the younglings.  Besides, Prowl was also very well adjusted.  Unlike some of his tribe mates, he had accepted his situation quite easily. 

If anything, allowing this would make Prowl feel grateful and indebted to him for his kindness. 

“I will speak to the Wing Lord, but I believe that I can persuade he and the Lord Protector that this would be beneficial for them all.”

The Flyers heard a loud sigh of sheer pleasure.  They turned towards the kiosk to see that the proprietor had given both young mechs each a piece of crystalized energon to sample.  The younglings were dreamily crunching on the delicious treats.  

The adults could not help but smile at their sparkling-like pleasure. 

Cyclonus chuckled.  “I will be in touch,” he said.  The purple mech then turned and took off, leaving the two caretakers to their wards. 

“Well, Blades, they both have your sweet denta,” noted Lasher.  “They like those same magnesium infused energon treats as you.”

Ramjet shook his helm and made a face.  “How can you consume those abominations?  They are much too sweet for any living being.”

“Nonsense! There is no such thing as too sweet,” countered Blades.  The two young Praxians apparently agreed as they each put several of the bright blue treats in their bags.

“You realize they will be hyper from all those sweets for hours,” sighed Ramjet.

“There is a park not far from here.  We can take them there and let them run off some energy,” suggest Blades.

“If we want them to recharge tonight that would probably be a good idea,” the Seeker noted, his optics never leaving the happy Grounders.  “When do you want to broach the subject of their tribe mates?”

“Later,” Blades said with a sigh.  “Let them enjoy themselves for a while.  I think it will help them.  They have been through so much.  Let them have some time to just be younglings.”

Ramjet nodded.  “Come on, I would like to see if I can get a few of those treats with the copper shavings before our young friends eat them all.”

 

To be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Sorry this chapter took so long. I knew what I wanted to do but was having trouble getting it to come out right.
> 
> Just to let everyone know, I am not sure when the next part will be done. I do not have writer’s block. If anything I have the opposite problem. Too many ideas for different stories all trying to come out at once. I may put this story on hiatus for a bit. Or I may end ‘part one’ of Civilized Behavior after a few more chapters and concentrate getting some of those other stories out of my head. I have not decided yet which way to go. 
> 
> Next time: We check in with some of the other Grounders, in particular Jazz.


	20. Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How are the tribe mechs fairing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Not really anything except mentions of past character deaths.
> 
> I do not own the Transformers etc and any mistakes are my own.

Jazz sipped listlessly at his energon.  It was sweet, warm and filling.  It might as well have been stagnant oil all the enjoyment he received from it. 

His valve still felt sticky and a little tender from his latest interface with his master.  The mech was not particularly rough, but not too caring of how aroused Jazz was.   He was not terrible, but the Flyer was a caring lover.

 Maybe the Seeker would allow him to go to the wash racks?  It helped him feel a little better, even if he never truly felt clean after enduring the other mech’s touch.

Nova Storm would usually be there, wanting to touch him after they interfaced.  This time, before the Flyer could get comfortable, a high-pitched beeping noise shattered the silence.  The Seeker cursed and said something about having to answer a com.

Jazz felt relieved.   The interruption gave him a moment alone.

As always when left to his own devices he tried to reach out to Prowl.  Unfortunately, it quickly became clear that his mate was in recharge.   He received nothing but subdued feelings, no conscious thoughts.

The disappointment was almost too much.  Jazz was not able to spend much time communicating with Prowl and that weighed heavily on his spark. 

The little snippets of time they managed to steal through their bond and feel the bitlets growing in his gestational chamber were his world.

At least the little ones were content.  They had just received an infusion of transfluids.  They felt safe, full and happy.  Their processors were still very simple.  They only understood satisfaction and need.  And whether their carrier was upset.

Jazz was trying to stay relaxed, just letting himself feel their happiness, when Nova Storm returned.

He was a little hesitant as he spoke.

“My mate,” he said, running a servo over the Grounder’s cheek.  “The Wing Lord has arranged to hold funeral rights for your tribe mates that perished at the temple.”

Blinking, Jazz looked up at the Seeker.  “They are?  Can I see my tribe?” his spark fluttered with anticipation at the thought.

“You may pay your respects to those that were lost, and you will be allowed to speak to the one called Optimus.  I am told he is a priest of some kind.”

Disappointment almost overwhelmed him.  It was not that he did not want to see Optimus.  The Shaman was a good friend.  And the thought of getting to see even one of his tribe was a blessing from Primus.  Still, he had hoped to see Prowl.  Let his bitlets feel their sire, as well as get a hug from little Bee and Bluestreak.

The Seeker looked at him critically.  His disappointment showed on his face plate.  “You do not wish to see your priest?”

“No… I mean, yes.  I do,” he sighed.  “I wanted ta see the others in the tribe.”

“That is not a good idea right now,” countered the Seeker with an air of finality.  Jazz pushed down his disappointment, deciding it would be best to accept what he was given.  He had no doubt If he tried to argue or appeared too upset, his master might change his mind and not allow him to go at all. 

Besides, it sounded like the Flyers were going to allow all their captive mechs to speak to Optimus because of his status as Shaman.  Jazz could at least find out how some of the others were doing.

 

Bitstream watched his little mate recharge peacefully.

He was so much more relaxed now that he had been able to spend time with his bitlets.    The bonding process with Air Raid and Silverbolt had been going surprisingly well.   They had not interfaced with the pair, but the more he thought about it, the better that idea sounded.

Purely for the sake of the sparklings, of course.  

The Grounder had been reluctant to leave his sparklings until Bitstream, Air Raid and Silverbolt assured him that they would be coming back soon.

Windcharger was a little down when they got home.  Bitstream decided to make him feel better, pulling the little mech into his lap and kissing him gently.  He was only a little surprised at how enthusiastic his diminutive mate was after the visit.  Especially when the Seeker hinted that he would like to feel those lovely dermas on his spike.

The desert mechs might be somewhat primitive, but they were not backwards where interfacing was concerned.

Bitstream stroked his recharging mate’s helm. 

The Seeker had just gotten off the com with Cyclonus.  It seems the Priest had gotten it into their processors that it was a good idea for the Grounders to have a funeral ritual for the deceased mechs of the tribe. 

Including Cliffjumper.

He had thought seriously about allowing his mate to go.  But the more he turned the idea over in his processor, the worse it seemed.

How would Windcharger react to seeing the chassis of his dead mate and the other tribe mechs?

In the end, he decided against it.

His sweet Grounder was doing so well.  Seeing the gray frames of his friend and more importantly, the sire of his podlings would only upset him.  And he was coming to rely on Bitstream as his mate.  Windcharger did not need any reminders of his former life. 

He frowned as Windcharger whimpered in his recharge.   Bitstream carefully lay back down and pulled the little form against his chest plates. 

He allowed himself to smile as the trembling frame slowly relaxed.  His little mate was becoming much more comfortable around him.  The last thing the emotional little mech needed was for his grief to be brought back to the fore. ‘Yes,’ he thought to himself.  ‘I made the right decision. Contact with the other Grounders would just upset him.’

Satisfied that he was doing what was best for his delicate mate he wrapped himself around the little frame protectively and shuttered his optics. 

 

Hound sat back impassively listening to his Flyer mate explain how the funeral rites would go.

Pharma seemed hesitant about the entire idea.  He said several times that this was voluntary.  That he did not have to attend this rite if he did not wish to.

“Please,” assured Hound.  “I want to see my tribe.”

He did very much wish to see his friends off on their journey to the Well.   And to have a few moments with Optimus. 

With luck they would be able to exchange information by com with the Shaman under the Flyers’ nasal ridges.  His spark swelled at the thought of being able to learn more about the other captives.  He also hoped to exchange other information, perhaps even plans to escape?

“OK,” said Pharma, relaxing slightly.  Hound cocked his helm. Did the Flyer think he would get upset about the prospect of being able to interact with his tribe?  That he did not want to see them?

“When can we go?” The Grounder tried not to sound too excited, however, he was very anxious to know.

“As I understand it, the priests are preparing the frames of those that were lost.  It will take a few days.  Some of them, well… They may not be able to display them.”

Hound understood that some of the frames were mutilated.  This apparently offended the sensibilities of the Flyers.  If they had been left to their own devises, the tribe would have every chassis there for them to mourn.  The condition did not matter.  The mech’s spark had returned to Primus, but this was the vessel that had once held their friend.    

It should be honored.

He did not say anything.  Something told him that arguing would be pointless.  He had not been around Pharma long, but had quickly realized that he was a very nervous mech.  Too much questioning and he would quickly become agitated.

If he became agitated the Flyer might not allow him to go to attend the funeral rites or speak to Optimus. 

“Thank you, my mate,” Hound smiled leaning close to the Flyer.  “You are very kind.”  The Grounder was excited, but feared he might be laying it on too thick.  Pharma just smiled.

“Oh, it is nothing.” The Flyer took Hound into his arms, obviously ready for an interface.   The Grounder shrugged and allowed himself to be laid back onto the berth.

At least the Flyer was a decent lover.  But that did not mean he intended to stay with him.

Even so, the moment he had the chance, Hound was going to escape and return to the Bad Lands.

 His sparklings would be raised in the desert.

 

Slingshot heard a noise.

From his position, sitting at the end of the hall, leaning against the wall, he very slowly he opened his optics.  The Flyer had not been asleep, just resting his optics.

The smallest of the sparklings was peeking out of the door.

The Seeker did not move, keeping his helm down so that the nervous bitlet did not realize he had been spotted.

He kept up the pretense of sleep until the little one was some distance into the room.  Very slowly, moving only his helm, he looked at the timid Grounder.  Letting his field stretch out, projecting calm and reassurance, he watched as the blue optics locked onto his face plate. 

Smiling gently, he waited to see if the sparkling would run back to the perceived safety of the room.

It has been several days, and the Grounders had remained locked in the room, only poking their helms out when food was left unattended.  He had not put out anything to eat yet this morning.  The mechling was likely hungry.

Skydive had pretty much given up on the vigil.  But Slingshot was patient.  He knew the frightened bitlets would come out eventually.  They needed love.  They needed the presence of a caregiver just as much as they needed fuel.

 

Wildrider knew his siblings would be angry.  The two Flyers did not try to grab them, or anything like that.  However, they refused to let them see Carrier.  Hoist said they had to stay in the room until the bad Flyers agreed to let them see their Carrier.

But the little sparkling was frightened and lonely.  He wanted to be held and cuddled.  Hoist and his brothers tried, but they did not feel right.  Their fields were not strong enough to truly comfort one another.

The Flyer did not move.  He did not call to him or try to grab him as the other had at first.  He just smiled watching the nervous Grounder.

Wildrider edged cautiously closer.  Still the other did not move.  He just continued to project calm and acceptance.  It felt so good!

The sparkling ventured a word.  “Uh, hi.”

“Hi,” answered the Flyer with a very friendly, even tone.

The Grounder bitlet spoke his own language.  He did understand some of the Flyer’s words, but they were kind of jumbled and not easy to pronounce.  Besides, this one had spoken to them in the Tribe’s words before. 

There had been no opportunity for the sparklings to be given Swindle’s updated program yet, since they refused to interact in any way with their new Caregivers.  However, just because of this, Slingshot had asked to download the program himself.  He wanted to be able to communicate with them in their language.

“Are you hungry, little one?” asked the Flyer.  That was what he called all of them.  The sparklings had refused to tell the Seekers their designations.

Nodding Wildrider smiled as the Flyer took a container of fuel from his subspace.  He unscrewed the top, allowing the sparkling to get an olfactory sensor full of the sweet, rich fuel.  “You can have it,” he said, setting it down a short distance from where he sat with his back struts against the wall.

Unable to stop himself the sparkling moved cautiously closer.  Still wearily eyeing the Seeker, Wildrider sat down and lifted the container.

He almost bolted when he realized just how close he was to the Flyer, but it felt really good being enveloped by his field.   He had missed having a calm, mature field meshed with his own.

 “I will not grab you.  Drink your fill.  There is plenty more,” assured Slingshot.

Taking a couple of sips, Wildrider sighed.  It was good.  So was being touched by the adult’s field.

He found himself leaning in closer.

 

Hoist woke to a state of panic.  Huffer and Brawn were still curled up in recharge, but Wildrider was gone and the door was not only unlocked but still open.

He gasped, looking around.  Had the Flyers taken him?  The blue and white sparkling rushed to the open door.

His spark froze as his optics found his brother.  Wildrider was leaning against one of the Flyers.  They were talking softly in the language of the tribes.

He squeaked as the adult caught sight of him, gentle smile never wavering.  “Would you like some energon, little one?”

“Its good,” assured his brother, subconsciously cuddling closer to the Flyer.

“Get back here,” ordered Hoist. 

Wildrider blinked at him in confusion.  Until he realized what he was doing.   Leaning against the Flyer’s side, enjoying his warmth and comfort. 

He looked up at Slingshot, almost expecting to be grabbed.  The Seeker did not move.  “You can go back to your brother if you want to.”

Bottom lip plates trembling, Wildrider wrapped his arms around Slingshot’s neck.  “No! I want to stay here with you!”

“You can’t trust him.  Flyers hurt sire, took us away from carrier!” gasped Hoist.

The sparkling whimpered, Slingshot reached up and stroked Wildrider’s back.  He was careful to make sure that he did not make the trembling sparkling feel trapped.  The tiny frame could pull away easily if he wanted to.  “My people made some bad mistakes.  We did not want to hurt anyone.  But we did.  To try and make things better, my mate and I have been asked by the Wing Lord to care for the four of you.”

“You’re not our creators!” yelled Brawn from the door.

“No, we are not.  But you need someone to look after you,” said Slingshot. 

“We don’t need you,” growled Hoist.

“I’m hungry,” Huffer pipped in, looking at Wildrider and the Flyer longingly.   He was lonely and scared as well as dealing with the discomfort of low tanks.  He wanted to cuddle.  A little part of him wished he was still allowed to nurse.  But he was too old according to Carrier.

Seeing the look on the mechling’s face plate, Slingshot took several more containers from his subspace and set them down on floor. 

Hoist tried to keep his brothers back, but Huffer and Brawn wanted not only the energon, but to feel safe and secure.  They both ran past him not even bothering with the energon.  Almost desperately, they pounced on Slingshot, burrowing around Wildrider to press their small frames against him.  All three sparklings wanted to be as close as possible to the Seeker.

Hoist was utterly shocked.  They had agreed to not cooperate with the Flyers until they agreed to let them see their Carrier. 

“What are you doing?” he gasped.  “This is what they want.  They will not let us see Carrier!”

“We cannot see you carrier right now, but, if you like, you can speak to your Shaman,” said the Flyer.

Cyclonus had commed to let them know about rites for the deceased Grounders.  He gave them the details he had and left it up to Slingshot and Skydive whether they thought it appropriate for the sparklings to attend.

Slingshot decided that he would have the mechlings speak to Shaman and discuss the situation with him.  He was happy to learn that the Grounders had someone like that.  It would be good for the sparklings to interact with someone that they knew.  Someone that could help them with their grief.

It sounded like this mech should know them well enough to help to decide whether the sparklings were mature enough to understand what is going on and attend the ritual.  Slingshot knew that their sire was one of the mechs that had been off lined.

 

Hoist was utterly shocked at this sudden turn of events.  His brothers were all cuddling with the Flyer!

Even when the mech’s mate came in to see what was happening, they did not run as he expected.   At the urging of the first one the new arrival sat down beside the little group. 

 To Hoist’s horror, having given in to his instincts Huffer all but jumped into the lap of the other Flyer.  The little mechling held him tightly, whimpering.  The mech looked shocked but pleased as he stroked the trembling bundle of mechling.

 

Both of the adults looked at Hoist with sympathy.    

 Slingshot had his com open.  ‘I told you that they would come around eventually.  Their core programing tells them they need a caregiver.’

‘What about that one?’

‘Just be patient,’ assured Slingshot.  ‘He needs us.’ As they watched, the little blue and white mechling looked so lost.    

Hoist could not stop the tears that escaped his optics.  Huffer, Brawn and Wildrider  had abandoned him and their Carrier! 

 

To be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Checking in on more of the Grounders.

**Author's Note:**

> Next Chapter: The Flyers intend to bring the Grounders to Vos, by any means necessary.
> 
> I do not know when I will be posting the next chapter. It will probably be a few weeks.
> 
> Comments welcome.


End file.
